Snowbound with Darcy
by Caitlin Marie Carrington
Summary: What's worse than being trapped, alone, in the middle of a blizzard? Being trapped with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Elizabeth**

Elizabeth Bennet had dressed with unusual care tonight, and not—she had to admit—solely because she was attending a grand ball at Netherfield. Though she had not shared the fact with her sisters, Lizzy had someone particular in mind when she allowed her mother to pinch her cheeks. She had thought of a man while she'd sat and let her eldest sister Jane remove the curling cloths all five Bennet daughters had worn to bed the night before (and all day besides).

Elizabeth had pictured his slow, leisurely smile as she had tried on a second dress, and then a third. She had imagined how well he might dance as she had followed her mother and father and Jane into their carriage, for the three-mile ride from Longbourn to the ball. And after they had arrived, she had enjoyed greeting their host Mr. Bingley (and suffered through addressing his two stately sisters), and then had rushed into the large foyer, her eyes sifting through all the red coats to try and find the one she wanted.

 _Her_ redcoat.

But Mr. Wickham was not there.

Elizabeth's younger sister Lydia had asked his friend Mr. Denny where Mr. Wickham was. And though it was not explicitly stated that their new friend Wickham had avoided the ball because of a certain, stuffy, proud and horrible individual—Elizabeth knew why Wickham had stayed away.

"Mr. Darcy."

"I'm sorry?" Elizabeth turned to face her dear friend Charlotte Lucas. While the rest of Meryton and their neighbors might consider Charlotte a bit on the shelf, Elizabeth thought that all the men who ignored Charlotte Lucas and chose not to ask her to dance were fools. Yes, Charlotte was twenty-seven, but how ridiculous the world was to consider her an old maid. She was lively and full of wry wit, and could make friends with just about anyone.

 _Even_ Mr. Darcy.

"I said, Mr. Darcy is approaching us." Charlotte turned her head toward Lizzy as she spoke, so that the man in question would not know they gossiped about him.

"I cannot think why," Elizabeth said. "Unless he is lost." The girls were alone near the very back of Netherfield's grand ballroom. Most of the young people were congregated closer to the dancing, or the tables of food on the opposite side of the large hall. Elizabeth and Charlotte's nearest neighbors at present were three elderly Meryton inhabitants, seated in a row of chairs against the wall.

Elizabeth was hiding from her newly discovered cousin—and the Bennets' houseguest—Mr. Collins. She had been forced to suffer through two dances with her clumsy kin. Lizzy and her dancing slippers had survived, though her carefully crafted shoe roses had not.

"Perhaps he wishes to ask you to dance?" Charlotte said.

Elizabeth laughed. "Have you forgotten the _last_ ball?" Charlotte smiled ruefully and shrugged; both girls remembered the public ball when Elizabeth had first met the grand Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy's friend Mr. Bingley had been taken with Jane Bennet—nothing unusual there, as Jane was not only the local beauty, but in Elizabeth's opinion, one of the kindest and best young women in the world. But Mr. Darcy had refused to dance with _anyone_ , and at a public ball where the male dancers were scarce.

And then he had, most specifically, listed his reasons why he would not dance with _her_ , when Mr. Bingley had suggested Mr. Darcy dance with one of Jane Bennet's sisters.

Elizabeth wished she had not overheard Mr. Darcy snub her. She had been sitting close enough to them that she could hear their every word, but far enough from the two men that they were ignorant of that fact. Still, she did not take herself terribly seriously—that was Mr. Darcy's area of expertise. Elizabeth had crafted the insulting moment into a deliciously funny tale that she'd told Charlotte and all her sisters.

But secretly, how she hated the fact that she had memorized Mr. Darcy's words, and that they still—so easily—ran round and round her mind.

 _She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me._

Elizabeth glanced to her right. Improbably, Mr. Darcy was indeed walking directly toward them.

 _She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. And I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men._

Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy's tall figure cut through the crowd. She refused to blush. She absolutely refused to be cowed in any manner. Though how awkward: _again_ she was at a ball with that infernal man, and because she was hiding near the wall, it would appear to Mr. Darcy that the only partner she could secure was her embarrassing cousin.

Elizabeth turned so that her back was to Mr. Darcy. "Charlotte, tell me he's veering right to speak with Mr. Abernathy." Mr. Abernathy was a great-great-grandfather, and had lost the ability to hear at least five years ago. "Tell me he is lost, and he is asking Mr. Abernathy for directions," Lizzy whispered again.

"I do not believe the man lost. And I dare say, Lizzy, if you give him a chance, you will find him very agreeable."

"Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all—to find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate. Do not wish me such an evil."

Charlotte's dark eyes softened with pity for a moment, then grew wide.

Elizabeth suppressed a groan. "He's right behind me, isn't he?" she mouthed.

A deep, low baritone sounded from behind her. "Miss Lucas, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, praying for patience, a way out—perhaps a sudden flood would fill the ballroom and they would all be swept out to the woods beyond, and eventually to the sea? _That_ would be preferable to having to speak to the man.

But nothing happened except Mr. Abernathy beginning to gently snore—the noise _was_ reminiscent of what Elizabeth imagined waves hitting the shores would sound like—but beyond that: no sudden natural disasters. And so she turned around and was startled to be so very close, so very near, to the man she had vowed to detest for all of eternity.

And then Mr. Darcy bowed curtly and asked her to dance.

If Elizabeth's anger at Mr. Darcy had been a small spark, the rich man's request was a gust of air for said kindling. He stood there, handsome and perfect, with not a care in the world. And she saw that, though he framed the request for a dance as a _question_ , it was already a foregone conclusion in his mind. What young lady in all of England would refuse Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?

 _Me_ , Elizabeth thought.

Her fury flamed to life, and she knew she could not dance with him. How could she spend a half-hour, pretending to enjoy his presence? And why did he wish to dance with her tonight—when before he found her so very lacking? Was he mocking her? Had he been forced into this duty by Jane and Bingley? Either way, she knew Mr. Darcy did not truly want to spend a long set forced into close proximity with her. And she had had enough of pompous men and bad dancing partners.

"How gracious of you to ask," she said. At the edge of her vision, Lizzy could see Charlotte's eyes grow even wider. Charlotte knew the steely tone Elizabeth was using; she knew it quite well. Charlotte shook her head slightly, probably knowing what was coming. "But I am sorry to report I have injured my ankle. I will not be dancing the rest of the night."

Charlotte gripped Lizzy's hand, the motion hidden by both of their skirts. Charlotte did not have to speak to deliver her message: _What are you doing?!_

Mr. Darcy stood there, silent, studying her. Elizabeth refused to shift or look away during his perusal. Instead, she forced herself to calmly meet his stare—but goodness, she had never noticed how very blue his eyes were. They were so, so…blue.

And he was tall, taller than anyone else here, really. Her neck began to ache, both from tension and from having to look almost straight up at him. His dark hair was cut shorter than the last time she had seen him, though it was still slightly mussed in the front, as if he had run his hands absentmindedly through it.

It was the only imperfect thing about him.

"I am sorry to hear that." When he finally spoke, Mr. Darcy's voice was low and rusty, as if he were unaccustomed to using it. "Was it the last dance that did you in, or your partner? I admit, I was worried for your health during those two dances."

Charlotte gasped lightly at his words, but Elizabeth kept her face calm. He had…had he just _insulted_ Mr. Collins? And in a rather dry, amusing manner, too? It was the first time she'd agreed with one of Mr. Darcy's sentiments, but she refused to let _him_ know that.

Also: he had been watching her? Throughout both dances?

"As you can see, I have survived."

"Though her dancing shoes did not," Charlotte added.

"Thank you, Charlotte." Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her grinning friend, even as Mr. Darcy subtly glanced down at her dancing shoes. Of course, they were mostly hidden by her dress. His gaze traveled back up to Elizabeth's face…slowly.

Much too slowly for comfort.

Elizabeth finally allowed herself to move, stepping back and taking a quick, calming breath. She was sure it was entirely her imagination, but Mr. Darcy's deep blue eyes seemed to take entirely too long to return to her face.

He seemed to linger on her…bodice.

 _What is this insanity?_ she wondered. Elizabeth was not ignorant of how certain men looked at certain young ladies. Why, whenever she went to Meryton—or London, or anywhere—with Jane, she was accustomed to it. Jane's presence on a street was akin to Moses parting the Red Sea. But instead of water, Jane's steps cut a path through men, young and old. Elizabeth would watch as their eyes sought her sister, the men scanning her from the top of her bonnet, down to the toes of her boots. Their eyes would often linger on her beautiful face (which would blush, her eyes riveted straight ahead so that she could pretend none of this silent play was happening), but often on other aspects of her person.

Elizabeth, too, knew enough to note the quick, nervous glances young men from the militia gave her, especially when dancing, and most especially directed toward the bodice of her dress.

But this. This was different.

This was heated.

This felt…scandalous.

Elizabeth glanced at Charlotte, to see if her friend had noticed, but Charlotte's eyes were focused on something across the room.

As Mr. Darcy stared at her, it was as if Elizabeth could _feel_ his gaze. As if simply the power of his perusal touched her as physically as his hand. What madness was this? Her dress felt tight suddenly, and her mouth dry. Her cheeks heated and she was having trouble breathing, and when she dared to look into his eyes again, he was staring at her as if…as if he was in pain.

As if she caused him pain.

And then he scowled, shook his head, and looked at whatever Charlotte was staring at—goodness, now he appeared as if he _hated_ her?

Elizabeth closed her eyes to center herself. It was just as well. _She_ hated _him_ , she reminded herself.

If only—if only her body didn't feel quite so…spellbound.

He spoke then as if nothing had happened. But, Lizzy reminded herself, _nothing had_. This was all in her mind.

"But you are injured enough that you will not dance? It must be serious, as I had heard you were a great proponent of dancing."

"I am," Elizabeth said, her mind reeling. Why was Mr. Darcy still standing here, talking to them? And what in the world made him ask her to dance? It must have been Mr. Bingley, his friend and their host for the evening. Elizabeth sought out Mr. Bingley in the crowd; he was dancing with Jane. _Joy and bliss_ , Lizzy thought, a small smile dancing across her face. Jane looked radiant, and Bingley looked…smitten.

 _If I am to be miserable all night, at least Jane shall be happy._

Elizabeth forced herself to return her attention to Mr. Darcy and Charlotte, only to discover that Mr. Collins had discovered them and was making his way to their side. So _that_ was whom Charlotte had been staring at.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat. It was bad enough that her cousin had embarrassed her in front of all of Meryton. She could laugh at herself and accept that. But to have Mr. Collins display himself in front of Mr. Darcy seemed almost too much to bear. Elizabeth didn't know why she felt so defensive around Mr. Darcy. Her pride had been pricked by his insulting words, but she should be able to move beyond such a petty thing.

Should she not?

 _Perhaps it's because he is so very handsome_ , some impish inner voice said. _And so very rich. And again…have we mentioned how strangely beautiful he is?_

It was strange, how handsome Mr. Darcy was. If you were to take each individual component of his face, one would not think them the masculine ideal. His brows were a bit heavy and always frowning. His lips were…Elizabeth swallowed, suddenly feeling warm as she watched him. His lips were entirely too full, for what a man should be. Mr. Wickham had thin, sensible lips and an easy smile. Mr. Darcy seemed to always be on the verge of pouting, though he'd probably consider that act inelegant and would therefore refuse to do so, on principal.

His nose was slightly too long and Roman, and his cheekbones and chin slightly too prominent. But when you put them all together—and those eyes, those dark blue eyes, as deep and mysterious as the sea—when you put them all together, they were…

Elizabeth forced herself to breathe.

 _Breathtaking._

His hair was the only wild thing about him, full of thick, dark curls. Like a briarwood in the forest. Something you could get lost in.

"Mr. Collins intends to join us," Charlotte said quietly.

Elizabeth squeezed Charlotte's hand once more, before they released each other. Mr. Collins had been a guest at Longbourn for over a week now, and Elizabeth's opinion of the man worsened every day, as Charlotte well knew. Mr. Collins was somehow both proud but petty, ignorant yet constantly giving sermons on one subject or another.

And worst of all: he had come to Longbourn to find a wife. He'd wanted Jane first, of course, but when their mother had made it clear Jane was not available—their new neighbor Mr. Bingley, with four or five thousand a year, was highly preferable to a man of God—Elizabeth had been thrust in his path.

And oh, how Mr. Darcy would judge him. And, by extension, her. Lizzy did not _want_ to care what Mr. Darcy thought, but she could not deny it. She did care.

 _Only because of Jane_ , she consoled herself, feeling her cheeks begin to flame as Mr. Collins stepped toward their small circle. _Mr. Collins will reflect badly on us Bennets. And then Mr. Darcy will judge us all—which might imperil Jane's chances with Mr. Bingley._

It was obvious that Mr. Bingley worshipped his older friend, Mr. Darcy. When Jane had been ill and stranded at Netherfield, Elizabeth had come to be with her and spent a few days with both men. If Mr. Darcy said he liked peach jam, Mr. Bingley would offer to invest in a peach orchard. If Mr. Darcy proclaimed the sky was green, Mr. Bingley would likely say, yes, yes, he'd never seen the Heavens looks as emerald as they did now…

And if Mr. Darcy didn't like Jane... Elizabeth's eyes sought her sister. Jane and Bingley were now standing, speaking with Mr. Bennet and Charlotte's father, Sir William Lucas. Mr. Bingley had moved to their neighborhood just before Michaelmas. He'd known Jane less than three months. Despite his obvious affection for her, did they truly have a deep, abiding connection?

One that Mr. Darcy's ill opinion could not sever?

Elizabeth turned from her study of the young couple to find Mr. Darcy and his disturbing blue eyes studying her. She opened her mouth—to say what?—she did not know. But before another word could be spoken, Mr. Collins arrived, bowing too formally and then grinning too widely.

He was dressed in his habitual, severe black. Mr. Collins had explained, one day at lunch, that his patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh believed black to be the ideal color for the clergy to wear, as it precluded vanity. Mrs. Bennet had agreed vehemently, praising the man for his good sense, and his patroness' good sense, and listening as Mr. Collins had then spent twenty minutes detailing his purchase of a new set of black boots.

Mr. Collins' hair was slicked back, though Elizabeth did not remember it looking quite so…wet…when their party had left Longbourn hours before. As he drew closer, she realized he must have exerted himself greatly on the dance floor, for he reeked as if he had been laboring on in the summer sun.

"My dear cousin! And Miss Lucas! Why are you over here, away from the dancing?" Mr. Collins looked behind them, at Mr. Abernathy gently snoring and Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long, gossiping behind their fans.

Before either woman could reply, Mr. Collins looked up—and up, and up—at Mr. Darcy. Mr. Collins' face, already pink and heated, turned an even darker shade of rose. He obviously wanted to know who this strange man was, standing so close to his cousin.

Elizabeth again wished for a tidal wave, or perhaps a group of wild boars, to break through the glass doors overlooking the verandah. Any sort of natural disaster would be welcome. Anything so that she might run away from this group, and never look back.

Instead, the band began a new dance and Charlotte said, "Mr. Darcy—"

She was not able to finish her sentence before Mr. Collins jumped—quite physically jumped—and turned to face the proud man. "Mr. Darcy? Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy? Why, what good fortune! To meet you here! I had just found out, by a singular accident, that there is now—in the room!—a near relation of my dear patroness. And her you are, Sir. Here you are!"

Mr. Darcy's face was still as stone and just as cold, as he stared down at Mr. Collins.

Mr. Collins continued, unperturbed. Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn as her cousin rambled, and she could not bring herself to smile, or nod—or even look—at Mr. Darcy.

"I happened to overhear Mr. Bingley and his sister mentioning the name of their friend, and I connected that illustrious name most immediately! Why, Sir, you are cousin to Miss de Bourgh and her mother Lady Catherine, who is my patroness. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of me meeting with a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly? I am most thankful that this discovery has been made, in time for me to pay my respects to you."

Mr. Collins bowed with a flourish, as if his words and actions were a great gift. Mr. Darcy was…silent. In fact, he completely ignored Mr. Collins, turning his gaze back to Elizabeth. She could not read his face. She only knew he was as displeased by Mr. Collins as she was—though she assumed for very different reasons.

Elizabeth could not believe her cousin would introduce _himself_ to Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Collins carried on, face gleaming and triumphant. "I can assure you that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight."

Mr. Darcy inhaled and exhaled, as if in pain. And still never looked away from Elizabeth.

"Indeed!" Mr. Collins said, stuttering slightly. "I was in Hunsford not—"

Mr. Collins might have continued on for the next half-hour, but Charlotte suddenly exclaimed, "Eliza! Your ankle! We must have you sit—there, just there—there is a chair next to Mr. Abernathy."

"Two chairs, actually," Elizabeth said, with relief. She and Charlotte could claim the chairs, and both men would hopefully leave their sides at once. Especially now that Mr. Abernathy had begun to snore. Loudly.

Elizabeth rushed to sit in the chair closest to Mrs. Cooper.

"Mrs. Cooper, Mrs. Long," she said in greeting.

The ladies, who had known Elizabeth since birth, asked after her mother and father, and how she liked the ball, and if she thought the candles were eight-hour or twelve-hour candles? And was it true that Mr. Bingley was soon to come to an agreement with her sister?

Elizabeth could barely suppress a groan. Had her mother made such hopes _public_? And here, in Mr. Bingley's ballroom, of all places? She turned to look for Charlotte, hoping her friend's arrival would make the women forget their questions. But instead, Elizabeth discovered the shocking sight of Charlotte…agreeing to dance with Mr. Collins!

And of Mr. Darcy, bowing to the ladies, who promptly invited him to take a seat.

Next to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Elizabeth**

"Mrs. Cooper, Mrs. Long—this is Mr. Darcy."

"Ah, but we have met! At the Meryton assembly," Mrs. Long said. Her cap was too large, and kept falling over her eyes. "I say, do you know if your friend Mr. Bingley has eight-hour or twelve-hour candles up there on the shelf? We are quite concerned about how long this ball might last."

"And if there shall be enough light," Mrs. Cooper said. She squinted across the ballroom, staring at the row of windows that faced the back of the estate. "Why, it's terribly dark outside already."

Elizabeth waited for Mr. Darcy to give a cutting remark. He would see these women as foolish country grandmothers.

"I apologize, I have no knowledge of these particular candles," Mr. Darcy said, surprising Elizabeth with his kind, even tone. "But I can ask one of the footmen to investigate."

"Investigate?" Mrs. Cooper cried. "Oh, we do not need such a formal inquiry!"

"But how kind," Mrs. Long said, smiling at him. "How very kind!"

"We had heard you were—"

Mrs. Long elbowed Mrs. Cooper's side, and none too subtly.

"You had heard what?" Mr. Darcy said.

Elizabeth still could not look at him, but his voice dripped over her like honey spilt on a finger. It made her think of slow, heavy, sweetness and that's what it felt like, descending upon her, golden and rich.

"We heard—we are just surprised that—we know you came here with friends from _London_ , we just mean," Mrs. Long said.

"Yes, yes, London is so very…London-like, isn't it?" said Mrs. Cooper. "I'm sure no one wonders at the cost of candles there."

Elizabeth was trying to ignore Mr. Darcy, but at the sound of his laughter—she looked. Yes, he _was_ laughing. And—smiling. But not _at_ the two old, simple country women. Rather, it seemed, _with_ them.

And then he looked at her, mid-laugh, with that perfect smile and his eyes glowing with good humor.

 _Who was this man?_

"You will not believe me, but I often worry about the cost of candles," Mr. Darcy said.

"That is wise! A wise man!" Mrs. Long cried. "Why, even if you do have ten thousand a year, candles add up, they do!"

Elizabeth blushed. Was it not just her own kin, but all of Meryton, who wished to shame her in front of this man?

"Miss Elizabeth." Mr. Darcy's voice was low next to her.

She forced herself to look at him. He was leaning just a little toward her, and he was so very tall that it was like his body became a wall, a living, breathing edifice. She was surprised to find that instead of being intimidated by his size, she was…comforted.

She didn't want to lean away. She rather wanted to lean toward him.

Instead, she kept her back stiff and straight. "Yes, Mr. Darcy?"

"Do you believe that I worry about candles?"

"I have no idea what you worry about, Sir."

"I am interested in what troubles _you_. You look very grave tonight, Miss Elizabeth."

Lizzy glanced at him in surprise. Mr. Darcy appeared to be truly interested in her thoughts. It was so absurd it made her smile; the man who could not be bothered with anyone, now sitting down to court little old ladies and a very plain country girl?

She wondered if Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long were watching her response, but they had been distracted by Mr. Abernathy, who was still snoring and had begun to slowly slide out of his chair. She turned back to Mr. Darcy, disturbed to find him still intent on her. He sat the proper distance from her, but somehow…somehow he _felt_ closer. Was it his searching stare? His interest—which must be forced? _He does not truly care_ , she decided. _He must be speaking with us for sport, if only to compare our conversation to the much more illustrious circles he is accustomed to._

"But I am never grave," she said archly. "And if anything troubles me, it would only be _your_ behavior, Mr. Darcy. It is so unlike you, I do not know what to make of it."

Mr. Darcy's dark eyebrows rose a moment, and then he looked both mildly amused and still…interested in her. And what she had to say. Elizabeth could not help but think of his dismissive manner, of how he had discounted all of her sisters and friends and neighbors at the Meryton ball—and yes, her. It should not sting, but it still did.

And Mr. Wickham! Goodness, she had almost forgotten about Mr. Wickham. How had that happened? Mr. Wickham had occupied her thoughts all day. She had imagined dancing with him, speaking with him…flirting with him. She was not in love with him, but he was handsome and amiable and amusing. She had wanted to find out if there was something more than a friendship between them.

Mr. Wickham had always been nothing but kind. And, as Mr. Wickham had relayed it, Mr. Darcy had been the opposite. Mr. Darcy was, in fact, the source of Mr. Wickham's woes. The two men had been raised together as children, Mr. Wickham the son of the elder Mr. Darcy's steward. The elder Mr. Darcy had promised a good living to Mr. Wickham, but upon his passing, Mr. Darcy had refused to give it to him…

Was she worried about Mr. Wickham? Why was she trying to _force_ herself to care? When really, in truth, since the moment Mr. Darcy had asked her to dance—he and he alone and completely occupied her thoughts.

Elizabeth paused and bit her lip, then let it go immediately—but not before Mr. Darcy caught that small, nervous motion. His gaze was now caught on her trembling bottom lip, and Elizabeth realized that Mr. Wickham had never looked at her like this.

No one had.

Mr. Darcy looked…injured. And heated. And when he met her eyes again, his so blue they appeared molten, she almost gasped. Her body had never reacted like this, not for anyone, not for anything. She felt a burning sensation in her chest, and her stomach, and everywhere. It was as if she was slowly expanding, so much so that her skin tingled and her dress felt tight. She knew it was just because she was—tired. Or hungry. Or—hot.

It was because of _something_ , was it not?

It could not be because of _this man_.

"How do you know my typical manner of behaving?" Mr. Darcy finally said. He glanced quickly at Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper, but they were still turned, yelling directions at Mr. Abernathy. Elizabeth was surprised to find that she felt as relieved as he looked by this turn of events.

By the chance to speak somewhat privately with him.

"I have studied your manners. When I have been exposed to you."

The left side of his mouth quirked up in an exasperatingly handsome way. "You have studied me?"

"As I study everyone I meet."

"And what have you discovered?"

"That you loathe dancing."

Mr. Darcy shifted, moving his tall, lean body slightly closer—no, the chair had not moved, but somehow, they were entering into their own small, private world. The sounds of the ball, the music and the footsteps and the conversation and the laughter, all faded away. Mr. Darcy took a deep breath as he watched her, and Elizabeth's body somehow responded. She breathed in unison with him, and the feeling was heady and wonderful and—

Awful.

 _Remember Wickham. Remember…_

She'd almost told herself to remember her pride. But it was Mr. Darcy who was too proud, was it not?

"I do not loathe dancing. I asked you to dance with me tonight. But you said no."

Elizabeth looked away, back out across the dance floor and the whirling bodies. "I did. And I would again. I do not need to dance with a man who does not truly enjoy my company."

She heard his sharp intake of breath, but refused to look at him.

"What makes you say such a thing? That I do not enjoy your company?"

"I am certain you were being kind, sent on an errand from Mr. Bingley."

"I assure you, I was not sent here by anyone. In fact, I asked you to dance at the dinner at Lucas Lodge. You rejected me then, as well."

She finally turned to face him and he looked—stricken.

"Perhaps." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps, Madam, I am just now realizing that it is _you_ who does not wish to associate with… _me_."

Elizabeth shook her head. How dare he look so wounded? "Mr. Darcy, the very first time I met you, you refused to dance with me."

Now she had finally said it, and his reaction was all she thought she had hoped for—he looked thunderstruck. First his face lost all color, and the slowly his jaw tightened and his cheeks grew ruddy. But his eyes—his eyes seemed pained, even more so than a moment ago.

"You—you overheard me that night?"

 _I will not repeat his words to him. I will not._ "Do not worry. My pride was not offended. We all know Jane is the true beauty of the family." _Oh, stop it, Lizzy—you sound a fool!_ But she could not stop talking. "It did not matter to me that you found me so unpleasant. But there were many women without partners that night. In all your state, you could have taken pity on one or two of them—"

"I had not—" He bit out those three words, then took a deep breath and spoke once more in a measured pace. "I had not, at that time, the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party."

"True," Elizabeth said. "And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom."

Mr. Darcy actually groaned and hung his head for a moment! And then quietly, oh-so-quietly, he said, "I have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before."

"You have done well enough with my dear Meryton neighbors." Elizabeth surveyed the room again. Charlotte and Mr. Collins' dance continued; she would flee to Charlotte as soon as the music ended—both to rescue her friend from Mr. Collins, and escape the man next to her.

"Miss Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth, please, look at me."

Elizabeth did as he asked, shocked by the gentle tone of his voice. It was soft, but strong. His eyes were kind, and he looked so very—so very beautiful. And…angry? But he voice belied any such emotion. And as he spoke, Elizabeth realized that he might be angry only at himself.

"I hope you do not remember my foolish words to Charles. But if you do, I will admit to you—I will admit to anyone—that I was lying."

Elizabeth could not conceal her shock. He nodded as her eyes widened. "And I apologize. In truth, I had not wanted to be at that ball. Have you ever been in a situation where everyone around you seems full of joy and happiness, and yet you are tortured? Perhaps 'torture' is too strong a word, but my mind and heart were elsewhere that night, and I could not countenance dancing and laughing when I had heavy burdens upon my soul."

"I—what can I say to this, Sir? You have no need to apologize to me, or explain. I certainly hope that whatever has burdened you is now lifted."

He shrugged, the slightest gesture but it spoke volumes. No, he still hurt. He still carried something that he shared with no one.

 _And he is sharing all this with you, is he not?_

"But I must apologize," Mr. Darcy continued, "both for lying, and for what you heard. And I must now tell the truth."

"You owe me nothing—"

"I _want_ you to know." Mr. Darcy stopped suddenly, and he searched her eyes, her face—for what?

 _What does he want from me?_ Elizabeth could not breathe, her curiosity grew so great.

Mr. Darcy's cheeks reddened, and a small muscle on the side of his face jumped. He clenched his jaw, and then his gloved fist. Then he appeared to force himself to look her in the eyes and said, "I want you to know that you are, in fact, the most—"

And then Mrs. Cooper turned around and said, "Ah, yes, my dears? I believe Mr. Abernathy is awake now. What were we discussing?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I hope you are enjoying my little story so far! While I've been writing JAFF for some time, I am completely new to posting on this lovely site...and new to the formatting, as well! Here's hoping I'm getting the kinks out. And now on to more important things: Elizabeth and Darcy, at the ball...

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Elizabeth**

Mr. Darcy stopped speaking immediately, his face slowly regained its normal, haughty appearance. But now Elizabeth knew better. _He was hiding something—hiding his emotions. But what had he intended to say?!_

Before either could answer, however, Mrs. Long turned to face Mr. Darcy and asked what time it was. "I cannot see a clock, can you, Mrs. Cooper? Mr. Abernathy has nearly fallen off his chair, and we should take him home, you see," she explained to Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth.

"I daresay I cannot see a clock, but it is late, very late!" Mrs. Cooper said.

"This is why we discussed the candles, you see," said Mrs. Long. She pushed her cap up out of her eyes. "Because we cannot stay up till dawn, as you young folk do. And there is going to be snow tonight, we fear."

"Yes, we worry about the roads."

"And the horses."

"And the candles."

Mr. Darcy nodded at the women, his face ten thousand times more kind than when he listened to Mr. Collins. He did not look at Elizabeth now, and any trace of…of secrets or a private world between them…was erased.

"It is close to ten o'clock, I believe," Mr. Darcy said. "May I assist you? Should I call for your carriage?"

It was the elder ladies' turn to blush, and Elizabeth felt horrible for them. She knew they did not own a carriage, but had accepted a ride with a neighbor. She opened her mouth—but what to say? How could she lessen Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper's embarrassment, and end this conversation?

And then Mr. Darcy surprised her, again. "I just realized: I am a guest here at Netherfield. I had planned on returning to London on the morrow." He paused and glanced at Elizabeth, his blue eyes dark and inscrutable. "But if the weather is to be as bad as you say—and I trust you both know of which you speak—then I believe I will remain at Netherfield for a few more days, at least. I wonder if I could ask for your assistance?"

"Well certainly," said Mrs. Cooper. "But how can we help you, Mr. Darcy?"

Mr. Darcy leaned forward slightly on his seat. "I had my carriage and horses readied for the journey to London tomorrow. As such, I haven't exercised my mares—they're young, and need to run. I'd kept them mainly indoors today, so that they would be fresh for our travels. But if we might be snowbound for a few days, they need to run. Would you mind terribly, if I lent you my carriage to take you home? It's too late for a groom to ride them, but putting them to work to take you to Meryton and back would be the perfect solution."

Elizabeth watched in awe as both women's acute embarrassment turned to pride. He continued to flatter them gently as they readily agreed.

"I am in your debt," he said formally. "Both for the news of impending snow, and for helping me with my horses."

Mrs. Long blushed and smiled, pretty lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. "We are but simple country women, Sir. But when the farmers and the field hands say bad weather is coming, we know enough to believe them!"

Mr. Darcy nodded and Elizabeth watched in awe as the women simply melted in front of him. _Who_ is _this man?_ she wondered. After his prideful behavior at the Meryton assembly and Sir William's gathering at Lucas Lodge, all of her neighbors had felt Mr. Darcy, though rich, was too proud and haughty. And Elizabeth herself had assisted in spreading this notion, she realized. She had told her sisters and Charlotte about his cutting remarks.

And, of course, her mother had told the rest of the world.

But now… Mr. Darcy glanced up at her, and it appeared his blue eyes were…twinkling. He smiled, a small little secret just for her. What was he saying, with that look?

Elizabeth realized she was gaping at him like a caught fish. She closed her mouth and turned to look across the ballroom. But she could not stop listening to Mr. Darcy's every word.

"I respect country folk. Truth be told, while I have a house in London, my true home is in Derbyshire. I feel far more at home in the country than in the city."

"Why, I've an uncle that far north! It's lovely country," Mrs. Cooper said.

"Very nice, quite lovely," said Mrs. Long. "A good lad, then, you are."

Mr. Darcy smiled gently. How had she found herself staring at his face again? And how was she now smiling back at him?

 _No_ , she reminded herself. _Do not stare at him so. He is rude and haughty and him being kind to two elderly women only makes him…human. Do not be so entranced because he simply lent his carriage to them. He probably owns ten carriages._

Elizabeth sat up straight, wiping away whatever awestruck expression must have been on her face. She was annoyed to see that this action only made Mr. Darcy's smile grow wider.

"My home—Pemberley—is far from town, and if you don't pay attention to the weather, you are a fool," he said.

"You are no fool, we can see that!" Mrs. Long said, her eyelashes fluttering until her cap fell onto them.

"And you aren't all high and mighty, like they say you are!" Mrs. Cooper added, causing Mrs. Long to elbow her again.

"You are both kind, but I _am_ a fool. Or have been in the recent past." Mr. Darcy said this while staring straight at Elizabeth, and she could not help but think he was apologizing directly to her. Elizabeth realized that if she had met this man tonight, and only tonight, she would be as smitten as Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper.

Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy in wonder. He'd charmed her elderly neighbors, and somehow helped these poorer, less fortunate women—while making them feel like queens who were assisting him.

After they eagerly agreed, Mr. Darcy stood and bowed and said he would make the arrangements. But before he left their group, he turned to Elizabeth.

"Is there anything I could do, to help with your injury?" he asked.

"My injury?" Elizabeth said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. But she felt adrift at sea: she did know how to act around this kind and charming Mr. Darcy. It was much easier—and more familiar—to aim to hate him.

But despite her tone, Mr. Darcy flashed that slow, secret smile once more. The one that said he was vastly amused, but would not share why. "Your _ankle_ ," he reminded her. "You hurt it while dancing?"

"Ah, yes," Elizabeth said. _Blast, how did I forget?_ It was his eyes. And his smile. And his stupid, horrible, lovely _niceness_.

"I do believe it has healed, thanks to this brief rest."

"Excellent. Then I will leave go to order the carriage. Thank you again, Mrs. Long, Mrs. Cooper. You have saved me tonight."

He looked at Elizabeth once more, a dark, searching glance that held no trace of a smile. And this time, Elizabeth felt it—felt that he wanted something. Something from her that, although she could not name, answered him from deep down, in her very core.

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth as if on the verge to speak, but then drew back and said nothing. He bowed curtly and moved swiftly away from them.

Elizabeth breathed again, only once Mr. Darcy had turned to make his way across the room. He had said it was close to ten o'clock? Thank goodness, as surely her parents would be ready to leave soon, and she could flee—this stifling room, her sisters shouting while they danced, her unctuous cousin—but most especially, Mr. Darcy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Darcy**

Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long, Darcy thought to himself, would be horrified: the twelve-hour candles were guttering, and soon the sun would rise in the east.

"The Bennets _would_ be the last to leave," Caroline Bingley drawled, coming to stand next to him. She wavered slightly, and he wondered if Bingley's sister was exhausted, or had drunk too much tonight, or both.

Lord knows he felt like he had drunk all night from the finest wines, when in fact, he hadn't touched even one brandy. He couldn't have—he did not dare lose control—not with _her_ nearby.

Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet.

He had watched the young woman all night, and now fully felt his danger: he was attracted to her, beyond reason. Thank God—thank _God_ —he had been interrupted by Mrs. Long and Mrs. Cooper, before he had said something foolish.

As in, his true feelings.

Had he really been about to tell her she was beautiful? The most beautiful woman he had ever met? First of all, that would have had to have been a lie. He had no earthly idea why he would have spouted such nonsense. Darcy paused, his mind racing over all the women he had met in London and Edinburgh and other cities. Surely, with so many of the Ton thrusting their eligible young daughters in his path, he would have met someone more beautiful. It was only logical.

But his memory failed him. All the young ladies' faces and dresses and conversations blurred into one another, and the only image that remained was a pair of fine, flashing brown eyes. A sardonic little smile. A taunting tongue that challenged him in the most dulcet tones…

He had to leave Bingley's estate.

The longer he remained in Elizabeth Bennet's presence, the deeper he fell under her spell. He had no use for fairy tales or love stories; he loathed that Georgiana was addicted to gothic novels. But he could not deny the strange, swelling feeling in his chest, whenever he thought of the sweet, smart, irreverent _Elizabeth_.

There, in that moment, he resolved to leave Hertfordshire immediately on the morrow. He'd also lied to the women from Meryton: his horses hadn't needed to run, and they could handle a flurry or two. He had to do anything to get away from Elizabeth Bennet. If he remained here, he didn't know what other inanities he might be tempted to tell her. And he could not trifle with her. Elizabeth Bennet was the daughter of a gentleman. She was not to be toyed with, yet she was completely unsuitable for marriage.

At least, marriage to a Darcy.

His heart rebelled against this thought, and the idea of leaving so soon. Why couldn't he be more like Bingley, for once, and simply enjoy the lady's company for a fortnight? But he did not flirt. Darcy knew himself well enough to know that compliments did not flow easily from his lips—as was evidenced by his dreadful stuttering behavior tonight.

Still, her response had been…remarkable. Most women, if a man of his stature had shown any interest in them whatsoever, would have done everything in their power to secure his affections.

She had looked both astounded and terrified, and had obviously wanted to flee his presence.

Darcy sighed and ran his hand over his face. He could feel his beard growing in, and he longed for bed. He would leave tomorrow. He would never flirt again, especially with women who were unsuitable to be his wife—and good God, he did not even plan on getting married for at least two more years! Why was he even _thinking_ of marriage? Ever since his parents had died—too young—and he had taken on the duties of caring for, growing, and expanding the Darcy empire.

After so much upheaval, Darcy had focused on making his life, and Georgiana's—and every person who depended on them—solid. But he, himself, had slowly turned…solid and unyielding.

His childhood had ended so quickly, and then he had worked and worked and worked. Of course, he would never call it that. He was a gentleman, after all. And did not all gentleman aspire to leisure? To enjoy their wealth and all that came with it?

Well, he never had. The year his father died, all the crops that Pemberley's tenant farmers raised had failed. Blight, everywhere. A fire had killed another tenant family. His father had just invested in new technologies and the company attempted to steal the money, thinking that the new, fresh-faced heir would be no wiser.

He'd stopped them. And taken over _their_ company. And spent the next—God, had it really been eleven years since his father had passed?—eleven years being everything he thought he had to be.

And yet, he had failed, had he not?

Yes, he'd made the Darcy empire grow and flourish, just like their lands and estates. But what of the people? First there was Wickham, who'd always had a streak of the devil in his soul. Darcy hadn't been able to tame him or help him. Or stop him from trying to ruin his dear sister. Just last year, Wickham had tried to elope with Georgiana, at the tender age of fifteen.

Darcy groaned. He did not want to think of such things, not tonight. His failures were great. But now, as the last of Bingley's guests gathered in the almost-empty ballroom, Darcy could not help but run his past, over and over in his mind.

And watch Elizabeth.

 _She could be your future._

He clenched his fist at the silly, hopeful voice inside his head. No, no she could not. It was clear—it was clear as the impending day, and right in front of him.

"Look at these people," Caroline sighed.

"I am," he clipped out.

His voice was more curt than he'd intended, and he felt Caroline stiffen for a moment. But then she studied his face—he imagined he looked exhausted and bored and judgmental, or at least, that's what Bingley would tell him he looked like. Caroline seemed to find comfort in his angry glower, however. He could see that she imagined they shared the same object of loathing: the Bennets.

He watched the Bennets from across the room. Bingley stood surrounded by the lot of them, Mrs. Bennet on his right, talking and talking. Mr. Bennet beside his short, squat wife, quietly ignoring the chaos. The two younger Bennet girls, giggling shrilly. The middle one quiet but sullen. Bingley seemed to see none of them; he stared only at Jane, the oldest daughter. And she stood, politely, seemingly unaffected by it all.

Mrs. Bennet again thanked Bingley for having them, so loudly that it carried across the room.

"How does she breathe? She does not cease _speaking_." Caroline yawned widely and leaned back against the wall, something she normally would never do. At least, not in front of _him_. Normally Caroline held herself to the strictest society standards, trying to hide her family's background in trade by playing the perfect part of the perfect young lady.

All the Bingleys were trying so very hard to better themselves. The Bingleys had wealth now, more than they knew what to do with, which is why Bingley had begged Darcy to come here to Hertfordshire, in the first place. Charles' father, too, had died too young, and never realized his dream of buying an estate. A family seat. A place of permanence, that would shelter generations of Bingleys to come. Bingley and Darcy had met at school years ago, and reunited three years ago when the elder Mr. Bingley had passed. Bingley had begged Darcy to help guide him, but now—Darcy was torn.

He watched as Charles stared lovingly at Jane Bennet. Only the two of them were quiet. The rest of the family were astounding—astoundingly loud. As they had been for the entire evening. Mrs. Bennet had "whispered" to one and all that her daughter Jane and Bingley were to be engaged at any moment; Darcy was sure even the cooks downstairs had heard the supposed "news." The two younger girls had run amok on the dance floor, flirting with the militia and any man who would pay them any heed. The middle girl was the only quiet Bennet—until she'd sat at the pianoforte and unleashed a caterwauling Darcy wished he could erase from his memory. And even Mr. Bennet—a gentleman, who had retired to play whist and such, as far as Darcy knew—had allowed his family to display their exuberance and absurdity.

 _I would have reined them in_ , Darcy thought. _I would never have let them stray this far from propriety, were it my family._

The path of his thoughts startled him, enough that he shifted and frowned and caused Caroline to ask lazily, "Whatever is wrong? Excepting, of course, that is it three in the morning and they are still here. I am going to follow Louisa's example and smartly find my bedchamber." She hesitated, wavering. Her red hair was a bit loose, and her crimson gown slightly wrinkled. She was a beautiful woman, not yet four-and-twenty. Darcy knew she wanted a good marriage. Beyond good, actually. She craved wealth and power.

She looked at him and smiled, a small, slightly vulnerable smile. "Walk up with me? I could use an arm to lean on." She gestured helplessly at her feet, where one shredded dancing shoe appeared just slightly beneath her gown.

How different Elizabeth was from her—from everyone. Most women _did_ throw themselves in his path. Darcy didn't think himself incredibly handsome. He knew he was too taciturn, and truth be told, too quiet in public to make friends easily. But he had ten thousand a year, didn't he? He laughed to himself. Even those old women from Meryton knew his blasted worth.

And because of that, women like Caroline wanted him. They'd use any excuse to spend more time with him. But not Elizabeth Bennet. She'd lied about her ankle, just to avoid dancing with him. She'd ignored his bumbling attempt at honesty, and an apology, and a compliment.

Why did it make him want her even more?

"I've promised to wait and have a drink with your brother," Darcy said. Lord, there he was, lying again. But for the higher good. He couldn't give Caroline any hope. She was pretty and smart, but he was not attracted to her.

And even if he was, he could imagine his Aunt Catherine's reaction to such a match: _Her father? Was in trade!?_

Not that Darcy cared what his aunt thought, but Caroline wasn't for him. Not only because he didn't want her, because a _Darcy_ had to marry the right person. And that wasn't Caroline.

And it certainly wasn't Elizabeth Bennet.

"Ah, well, tell him goodnight for me." Caroline smiled tightly, that eager, confident mask she wore slipping back so easily onto her pretty but strained face. "And good night to you, as well, Darcy."

She turned to walk away, but he did not watch her go, even as he briefly registered that she looked back—turning to see if he would.

Instead, he scanned the room for Elizabeth. Where had she gone? Then he saw her, hurrying in from the entrance foyer. She looked beautiful, even after hours of being packed into a crowded, overheated, shrill ballroom. She was carrying a heavy coat, but she still wore those dainty satin slippers…

A footman hustled across the room, in Elizabeth's wake. Darcy could not stop the smile that spread across his features. She loved to walk, and she did so at such a speed that the young man could barely keep up.

Darcy had to leave this place. This instant. This strange new habit—this smiling—had to stop. This feeling in his chest, it had to stop. And now that he was alone, he could admit to himself if no one else, the feeling all over his body…

It all had to stop.

He could not keep his eyes from following her fine figure as she sped across the room. She was petite, but as her gown flowed around her form, he could see her perfect, slight curves. He could imagine touching her, embracing her, feeling her limbs pressed against his…

God, his mouth was watering. It had been ages since he'd been with a woman. Since he felt like this—had he ever felt like _this_ , before?

He didn't know. He didn't care. He would leave—tonight if he could.

Surely the Meryton ladies didn't truly know any special secrets about the weather. All old people feared storms and rain and thunder and disaster. His horses could handle the ride to London, for the sooner he removed himself from Elizabeth Bennet's presence, the better it would be.

And if he stayed here, he knew Bingley would only want to spend as much time as possible with Jane Bennet. Which reminded Darcy that he should talk to Bingley. He'd watched Jane Bennet this evening—not as much as he'd unwillingly been entranced by her sister—but he'd carefully observed the elder girl. While she danced merrily with Bingley, she did much the same with any of her partners. While she laughed at his jokes and smiled as he spoke, she did not give him any particular regard. The girl seemed as apt to smile at a potted plant as at any man here.

 _I should take Bingley to London with me_ , Darcy thought. _I can save us both from a fate worse than death: an imprudent match._

He glanced outside, but it was still too dark to see what weather the day would bring. It was only then that Darcy realized Bingley was waving at him, from across the ballroom.

"Darcy! Darcy! Come here, good fellow!" Bingley called.

Why were the Bennets not leaving? Darcy slowly walked toward the group, wondering if there was a problem with their carriage and they needed to borrow his. But Bingley would jump at the chance to offer Jane Bennet anything she might require…

Darcy kept his gaze on Bingley, then on Mr. Bennet, who nodded sagely at him as he joined the small circle.

"You will never guess! It's absolutely dreadful!" Bingley said, smiling widely. "There's a terrible snowstorm outside, and the Bennets are stranded!"


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you for your very kind words! And to answer a question: yes, this story really is completed! I am uploading a few chapters a day (or as many as my little kids will allow me; my one little kiddo is clinging to my back and asking me "Who is Darcy?" as I type).

I should be finished uploading _Snowbound with Darcy_ over the next two-three days. I would publish my other works here, but I must admit (**blushes wildly**) that they are...intimate. Apologies to all JA purists. :) But don't worry, this story is CLEAN! If memory serves, there IS one slightly romantic moment coming soon, but nothing that would be labeled "mature"!

And with that (and no child crawling on me), let us return to a snow-covered Netherfield...

* * *

Chapter 5: Elizabeth

* * *

"Look at all that snow," Jane sighed. "Everything's transformed. It's like a fairy world outside."

Elizabeth crossed the elegant bedroom to stand next to her sister by the window. They had been given a well-appointed suite last night—or, really, very early this morning. But in their exhaustion, the girls had fallen into bed as soon as they'd gotten their dresses off. Elizabeth hadn't had time to appreciate the beauty of the room.

The walls were cream, and all the bed linens were a thick, matching brocade. Every aspect of the room was well designed and feminine. It was quiet, meaning either that the walls were thicker than at Longbourn—or that their mother and sisters had been placed in rooms quite far off. Both Jane and Lizzy had slept in, not accustomed to such a thick mattress or such a peaceful morning.

And now, outside, all of Netherfield's gardens stretched out before them—covered in a thick, white mantle.

"A frozen fairy world," Elizabeth agreed. "I can't believe it. Such a terrible storm. And so early in the season."

"Yes." Jane nodded and self-consciously touched her hair, which was still half-pinned from last night. "I feel awful that we had to spend the night at Netherfield. Poor Mr. Bingley, having to take care of me again—I still cannot believe that Mama made me walk here in the rain."

Elizabeth went back to her perch, on an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. "I don't think you need to apologize. Did you see how happy Mr. Bingley was last night, knowing you were to sleep under his roof? If he had his choice, I'm sure he would have Mama force you to march here in rain, snow, or hail—anything so that you might catch another cold and be bedridden at Netherfield."

Jane blushed. "Oh, don't tease me, Lizzy."

"I'm not! But you will need to apologize when we see him at lunch."

Jane's eyes widened and she looked panicked. "Whatever for?"

"For the _rest_ of your family. I fear Kitty and Lydia will be wild. And let us just agree to keep Mary away from the pianoforte?" Her sister's terrified expression made Elizabeth stop laughing. "Darling Jane, I was only teasing. I'm sure we will all be on our best behavior. I daresay, today Mama will reprimand even Lydia—for a change. Anything to ensure we impress your future husband."

Jane threw herself into the matching chair, opposite Elizabeth, and took her cup of hot chocolate from the side table. "Lizzy, stop. You don't know the pressure I'm under. No one expects you to marry well—" Jane stopped speaking suddenly, and took another sip of her drink. "I meant to say, Mama expects _me_ , as the oldest, to marry well. Of course you will marry well. Of course you will."

Elizabeth nodded, picking up her own cup of hot chocolate. It had been served in a fine teacup, so thin and delicate that she feared her grip might shatter it into a thousand pieces. And after Jane's comment, her heart felt that way, as well.

Elizabeth knew Jane didn't intend to be cruel. And it was true. Elizabeth was not the beauty of the family; her mother had always made sure she knew that. Jane's face could launch a thousand ships. Kitty was not yet sixteen and grown men looked at her on the streets. Lydia's lively nature made up for her slightly crooked nose. And Mary…

Well, Mama never mentioned Mary, not really.

But Elizabeth's mother had always been quite keen on pointing out Elizabeth's faults. Elizabeth was too short and too skinny. She did not fill out a dress, and her hair was neither straight nor curly. She walked too much and had a plethora of freckles in the summertime. Her eyes were plain brown, and she found everything amusing and used words with entirely too many syllables.

No, their mother did not expect Elizabeth to marry well. But she did expect her to marry whomever Mrs. Bennet directed her to. And this week, that person was Mr. Collins.

Elizabeth glanced up at Jane. It was rare that she felt jealous of her sister—it was rarer still that Jane was not the sweetest, kindest person imaginable. And then Elizabeth saw that Jane's eyes were full of tears!

"Jane, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Lizzy. I didn't mean to be thoughtless. I just can't—I just can't stand it! Mama will be watching me, watching every single thing I do and say today! And Papa, and Mr. Bingley, and his sisters. To be stranded at Netherfield once was hard enough. Now we are _all_ here and I will be on display, as Mama waits for me to make Mr. Bingley fall in love with me. What if he doesn't? And yes, Mary _cannot_ play the pianoforte! We must stop her!"

Elizabeth put down her teacup and stared at her sister, who appeared on the verge of hysteria. "Jane, calm yourself! No one expects you to _make_ Mr. Bingley fall in love with you. For in truth, he already is in love with you, and everyone can see it! Ignore Mama and just—enjoy getting to know him. You are under no obligation to marry him if you do not like him. You must gain control of your emotions, and this situation."

Jane wiped her cheeks and tilted her eyes to the ceiling, as if she could contain her tears if she looked upwards. "Of course I am under an obligation to marry him. He has five thousand a year. If he offers for me, he will save us all."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Mama expects _me_ to marry Mr. Collins. Don't think I haven't seriously considered it. If I marry our cousin, then we will not lose Longbourn when Papa—when Papa passes. But I'll tell you this, Jane." Elizabeth leaned forward and grabbed her sister's hand. "I cannot. I have tried to make myself amenable to the idea. He has not proposed, but Mama encourages him at every moment—and so I have been forced to imagine becoming Mrs. Collins. And I cannot."

"Lizzy," Jane said quietly. "I know he is not ideal, but…"

"No! He is far from ideal for me, but I am also far from ideal from him. We have only one life to live, Jane. How can I waste it on a man whom I detest, and who would grow to detest me? But you—you are in a different situation entirely! There is a wealthy man who adores you. And now it is up to _you_ to decide if you _adore him_. For I shall not allow you to marry anyone whom you do not admire."

"Lizzy," Jane whispered. "I do not admire him. I—I love him. At least, I think I do. I believe I could quite fall entirely in love with him. He is everything a gentleman should be, and when I am with him I feel—I feel so light. And free. Like I am flying."

"Well then!" Elizabeth said, sitting back. "I am shocked into silence. No, wait, that was only for a moment. I can speak again."

Jane laughed and curled up onto the chair like a cat. "Lizzy, stop."

"I knew you _liked_ Mr. Bingley well enough. But I did not know you have moved on to a hearty, full-fledge, almost-very-nearly in love state."

Jane's cheeks were red with laughter now. "You are trying to make me laugh, so that I do not cry."

"And you are so wise," Elizabeth said. "Just remember: you love him. I am sure he loves you. So ignore Mama and Mary and all pianofortes everywhere, and simply enjoy this unexpected gift: time. Time with Mr. Bingley."

Jane began to cry again, and at Lizzy's incredulous expression, she both laughed _and_ wept.

"Goodness, what now?" Elizabeth said.

"Now I am crying because I love you so! How lucky I am, to have such a wise, ridiculous sister."

"And I as well! Well, perhaps not the 'wise' part. But you are definitely ridiculous." Elizabeth went to her sister, dropping to her knees and laying her head on Jane's lap. "There, there, you absurd creature," she murmured, hugging her sister's waist until Jane bent over, covering Lizzy and pressing her cheek against Elizabeth's cheek. They both stopped crying and laughing and finally just breathed. Jane's tears wet Lizzy's cheek, and the fire crackled, and finally Jane exhaled shakily.

And then she began to laugh again. "This is a very uncomfortable position, is it not?"

"Thank goodness you said something." Elizabeth smiled as they both sat up. "One more minute down there, and I would have injured myself."

At the word "injury," the smile fell from Elizabeth's face.

"What's wrong now?" Jane said, wiping her tears away and picking up her chocolate. "I thought I was the one being silly and emotional."

"Nothing is wrong," Elizabeth said, going back to her chair. Her hot chocolate was cold now, and a sludge had formed at the top. She put it back on table and stared into the fire. "I just remembered—there is one person who is not happy we are here. And I lied to him last night."

"You _lied_?"

"Yes. To Mr. Darcy."

"To Mr. Darcy? What did you say?" Jane asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. "I am ashamed to admit it, but I told him I had injured my ankle while dancing with our dear cousin."

Jane made a face. "It is surprising that you did _not_ injure yourself. Gracious, we must keep Mary away from the pianoforte, and Mr. Collins away from—"

"Everyone!" Elizabeth said.

"Lizzy, that is not very charitable of you."

"And yet, it is true, is it not? But I promise, if it means giving you time to become better acquainted with Mr. Bingley, I will even ask Mr. Collins to—to read Fordyce's sermons to me."

Jane shook her head and stood. "Let us hope that is not necessary. Now tell me, quickly before we must dress, why did you lie to Mr. Darcy? He is quite amenable. I spoke with him often last night."

Elizabeth shook her heard. In the cold—very cold—light of this day, all her warm, jumbled, confused feelings toward Mr. Darcy seemed to fade. Yes, he had been kind to Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Long, but what kind of monster was mean to humble old women? Elizabeth remembered the way he had looked at her, the very private, strangely wonderful and awful way he had _stared_ —

"You remember," she blurted out. "You remember what he said about me, at the Meryton assembly?"

"Yes, but Lizzy!" Jane sighed. "You must not hold a grudge. Bingley tells me he is somewhat stilted around people he does not know."

"Bingley?" Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. "Not _Mr._ Bingley, but _Bingley_?"

"Mr. Bingley." Jane blushed. "It is just that his sisters and Mr. Darcy call him that, and it seems to fit him so well—do not worry, I have never said it to his face."

Elizabeth laughed. "Call him whatever you like. You could call him Mr. Blockhead and he would still think you the most eloquent, gracious woman in the world."

Jane ignored her teasing. "You must cease this anger toward Mr. Darcy. He is kind, I truly believe, if somewhat stiff. And he holds no ill will toward us."

"But then, you did not see his face last night! When the footman came in to tell us we were snowbound!" Elizabeth leaned forward, her face heating at the memory of it. "Jane, I tell you, as soon as Mr. Darcy heard that we were to spend the night—likely more than one night here—his face changed. Before, he had been perfectly acceptable. Not pleasant, of course, the man is never pleasant—"

"Lizzy!"

"But his mien had been that of a perfectly pompous, perfectly fine gentleman. And then we told Mr. Bingley and Mama and Papa that we could not leave, and you should have seen Mr. Darcy. His face just—fell. He looked horrified, Jane. Truly horrified."

"I don't remember this at all, Lizzy."

"You were distracted. And Mr. Bingley was shouting for the housekeeper, and Kitty and Lydia were making a scene. No one saw it—no one but me." Lizzy stopped, suddenly afraid she would reveal herself. No one else had watched Mr. Darcy so closely, had they?

"Then what did he do?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Nothing. What could he do? But I am not wrong here, Jane. He was affected by us remaining here. And not in a happy way. I cannot explain it, but I know what I saw."

A knock at the door interrupted their discussion, and a young woman's voice called out that she had been sent to help them dress.

"But…we have nothing to wear?" Elizabeth said, picking at her dress from last night. She and Jane had helped each other dress, bemoaning the wrinkles and dirty hems.

Jane shrugged and gave the maid permission to enter, but instead of one lady's maid, two young women entered the room. They explained they had been sent to help the ladies with their hair and dressing.

Elizabeth requested a simple, easy style and did not require that she sit in front of the room's lone looking glass while her maid attended to her hair. Jane was nervous and kept fretting, which caused her maid to stumble and restart a few times.

"I cannot believe this," Jane whispered, as she sat in front of the looking glass and watched her reflection. "Was this not so kind and thoughtful?" Jane caught Lizzy's eye in the mirror, and Elizabeth knew her sister was silently adding, _And you thought Caroline Bingley did not like us._

Elizabeth did not reply, but as she sat there and felt the gentle tug of the maid's fingers in her hair, she could not help but imagine what Jane's life would be like should she become mistress of Netherfield. At home, all five girls shared one maid. As such, the girls often helped each other with their hairstyles and dressing. She dared not say that in front of Mr. Bingley's servants, however; it would mortify Jane and she was sure word would somehow get back to Caroline Bingley.

"There you go, Miss Elizabeth. Would you care to check the style before you go down to breakfast?" The maid held up a small looking glass, and Elizabeth was startled at her sleek chignon.

"It looks lovely," she said earnestly. "Thank you."

Both young maids proclaimed it was their pleasure, gathering their supplies once Jane was satisfied with her hair.

"Would you show us the way to the dining room?" Elizabeth asked, and both girls eagerly agreed.

"Do you see how they watch you, subtly but most assuredly?" Elizabeth whispered as they followed the quick-moving maids down the hallway. "It is not Caroline Bingley they answer to, but your 'Bingley.' I'm sure they're both vying to be your lady's maid."

"Lizzy, you're as bad as mama!" Jane laughed. "I don't believe it."

Elizabeth shrugged, content that her sister appeared happy once more. "Well, for once I agree with Mama: while we are trapped here, we might as well make the most of it. You shall have your Bingley, and I shall have more hot cocoa at breakfast!"

She just hoped that Mr. Collins…and Mr. Darcy…had already dined. She did not wish to face either man, knowing they all were trapped together for the foreseeable future.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Elizabeth

* * *

"Oh no, everyone is already dining," Jane whispered, her pace quickening as they approached the open doors of the dining room.

"Are you worried they will run out of tea?" Elizabeth said.

"Lizzy, be serious. I do not want to offend Mr. Bingley or Caroline."

"There is nothing you can do to offend Mr. Bingley," Elizabeth said. "You look radiant, Jane. Please do not be nervous."

Jane stopped just outside the door and grabbed Elizabeth's hand. She squeezed and smiled at her sister. "Lizzy, I'm sorry I was agitated this morning. Let us have a wonderful day!"

Elizabeth squeezed the slight, soft hand that held hers. "We shall. I am sure of it."

And then she followed her sister into the dining room and encountered disaster.

A long table had been set up, large enough to accommodate the entire party: Mr. Bingley and his two sisters, Caroline and Louisa Hurst. Mrs. Hurst's husband. Mr. Collins. And, of course, their parents and all their sisters.

Elizabeth scanned the room. The only person missing was Mr. Darcy.

"Hello, hello!" Mr. Bingley cried, standing and bowing. He sat at the head of the table, furthest from a buffet spread out with enough food to feed all of Meryton. There was an empty seat to his left, across from Mrs. Bennet, and both Mr. Bingley and their mother encouraged Jane to take it—one kindly by sweet words and a smile, and one not-so-subtly. Mrs. Bennet bobbed her head toward the empty seat so many times she resembled a chicken.

Elizabeth was forced to sit at the other end of the table, next to Mary and across from Mr. Collins. Jane shrugged apologetically, but Mr. Bingley was already engaging her in conversation. Lizzy walked over to the sidebar and filled a plate with a small amount of eggs and a bit of every other treat, from thick cuts of ham to fresh rolls with marmalade. She knew Jane would probably be too nervous to eat, but thankfully she was not. After sitting down, she was just about to take her first bite when Mr. Collins began to speak. Unfortunately, he also began to shovel eggs into his mouth at the same time, and Elizabeth could not understand half his words. Finally he cleared his throat and ended his question with, "…and we may discuss this at a later time?"

Elizabeth had no idea what he was speaking of, nor did she wish to know more.

"A later time," she repeated, lifting her tea cup. Mr. Collins seemed satisfied with her answer and turned his attention back to the massive mound of eggs on his plate. Down the table, Elizabeth was glad to see Jane and Mr. Bingley chatting happily. Mr. Bennet caught her eye and smiled, raising his cup of tea in a small toast. Mrs. Bennet was interrogating Caroline and Mrs. Hurst about the latest London fashions, though Elizabeth's mother seemed to be doing all the talking. Mr. Hurst was eating sausage.

"You look very fine, Lizzy," Mary said quietly.

"As do you," Elizabeth said, taking a moment to take in her sister. Mary did, in fact, look quite lovely. From an early age, the girls had been taught by Mrs. Bennet that Jane was the most spectacular jewel in the Bennet's rather shabby crown. Elizabeth knew that her mother did not mean to be cruel and praise her favorites while denigrating the other girls. It was simple math: their estate was entailed to Mr. Collins. If the girls were to have any sort of life after their father passed away, they had to marry—and marry well.

Elizabeth, probably through virtue of her rather obstinate nature, had never received much of her mother's favor. Neither had Mary, for she was quiet and studious. Mrs. Bennet preferred her lively younger daughters who liked to dance and play cards and craved loud, exciting diversions.

As a result, Elizabeth had learned to ignore her mother in general, and Mary had ignored her own person in general. Mary was the Bennet most likely not to have brushed her hair for breakfast, second only to their father. She modeled herself after Mr. Bennet, preferring to read rather than socialize. And she never cared about ribbons or dresses or fashion or anything that her younger sisters yearned to discuss.

But today, although Mary was wearing her same plain, lavender gown from the night before, she had carefully done her hair. It was brushed and neat, and her lips shone as if she had stolen some lip salve from Kitty. Elizabeth just had time to wonder at this, when Mary cleared her throat and leaned over the table.

Toward Mr. Collins.

 _Oh no, it cannot be_ , Elizabeth thought.

"Mr. Collins, what a shame it is that you do not have your books with you. I was greatly hoping you would read more of Fordyce's Sermons to us."

Lydia glared at Mary, and from the jerking of her body, Elizabeth knew Lydia was trying to kick Mary's shins under the table. She missed and Kitty yelped with outrage and surprise. Mr. Collins saw none of this, but did look up gleefully at the mention of him trying to better the mind and souls of his lowly female cousins.

"I find your remarks commendable. How little young ladies today are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess, for certainly there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction."

Lydia finally found her mark and Mary grunted in pain. But Mary forced a smile across her face and said, "I hear Netherfield has an expansive library. Perhaps Mr. Bingley will be kind enough to give us a tour after breakfast."

"Library, you say?" Mr. Bingley heard his name at the other end of the table. "Why, we do have a library. I must admit, I haven't spent much time in it, as of yet." He glanced sheepishly at Jane. "Only because I've been busy with the ball, you see. And touring the estate. I do love to read! Though I don't read often, but there are so many other grand things to do in the country, aren't there?"

The more Mr. Bingley spoke, the more his pale skin turned pink and then pinker. Jane laughed prettily, and Elizabeth could tell that she thought everything Mr. Bingley said was sweet and kind.

Caroline was not as impressed, however. "So many things to do in the country? Please do elaborate."

Mrs. Hurst laughed and took a delicate sip of tea. "Well, I always love a picnic."

"But a picnic today would be rather cold," Caroline said.

"Well, we could tour the library?" Mr. Bingley said, still staring only at Jane. "And then perhaps play some cards?"

"I do love whist," Jane said agreeably. "And books."

Lydia and Kitty grumbled quietly, murmuring about "dancing" and the lack of any fine partners. Mary brightened at the mention of the library, turning to see if Mr. Collins was as excited as she. Elizabeth was simply happy that everyone was ignoring her, and Mr. Darcy was nowhere to be seen. As long as he was not nearby, to distract her with his burning blue eyes and surprising kindnesses, she could return to her normal view of the world.

"Ah, it's settled, then!" Mr. Bingley cried. "After breakfast, we'll take a tour of the ground floor. I'd take you all outdoors, but for the weather. I wish you could see it; there's a lovely folly down near the lake. I was just touring it with Mr. McCaffrey, my steward, last week. I say, isn't it capital to say 'My steward'?" He smiled brightly at Jane. "I think there might be a horse-drawn sledding carriage somewhere on the estate. Perhaps later we could find it and take a tour of the grounds? It's just so splendid to be in such a lovely neighborhood, even when it's covered with snow. My father always wanted a family seat, you see. I do wish he could see us now…and meet you."

Jane pressed her hand against her heart, and the two young lovers stared dreamily into each other's eyes. Elizabeth for all the world wished the rest of the group could sneak out the doors right now, and not disturb them.

But Caroline snapped, "Charles! Please do not get distracted. We must tell our guests what the plans for the day shall be."

"Ah, yes. Well, it's a pity there's so much snow. You know what else is lovely for outdoors? Rounders! But we can't play rounders today, can we? I do love rounders. I say, we could set them up in the ballroom?"

"And break a window within five minutes," Caroline said.

"What about nine pins?" Lydia offered. "You can't break a window while playing lawn bowling. At least, it's not very likely."

"Oh yes!" Kitty said, "Nine pins would be lovely!" Mrs. Bennet applauded the idea verbally and with her hands, and Mr. Bennet sighed and met Elizabeth's glance with a helpless shrug.

"And the library?" Mary said quietly, earning her a nod from Mr. Collins. She beamed like the sun had shone on her.

Caroline made a moue of distaste, and Mrs. Hurst proclaimed that she found the library drafty and overly full of old books.

"Yes, you're correct, I suppose. Perhaps we should only tour the east wing," Mr. Bingley said glumly. Then he brightened suddenly, exclaiming, "Ah yes! I just remembered. Darcy's working in the library. It's best we don't go there right now, as we might disturb him."

"Oh, I never said we shouldn't tour it," Caroline quickly said. "Of course, as my sister points out, it is full of books—but is that not the very point? We should at least stop by so that M-M-Madge may see the room."

"Mary," Elizabeth said politely but firmly.

"Capital!" Mr. Bingley proclaimed, standing and offering an arm to Jane. "Though poor Darcy will be vexed. He said he had correspondence to attend to, and I told him he would not be bothered at all in the library. Ah well, let us go distract him!"


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: A thousand apologies! I am new to Fanfiction, so I had marked this story as "complete." OOPS. I think I now understand that despite the fact that the book is complete (in real life/on my computer), I should not mark it as "complete" HERE until all chapters are uploaded! Mea culpa; I've changed the category designation and will only mark it complete once it's entirely uploaded. I would continue humbly groveling, but I think Darcy will be more interesting... So sorry for the confusion, though!

* * *

Chapter 7: Darcy

* * *

Outside, the wind blew the heavy snow up and against the long library windows. Darcy shifted in the comfortable leather chair that was set in front of the fireplace. If he were home at Pemberley, today would be one of his favorite sort of days. It would be close to Christmas, and he and Georgiana would be together. His younger sister would be testing her skills at decorating, the cooks would be stirring the puddings, his dear friend and cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam would visit before returning to his parents' estate for Christmas…

And Darcy could take a moment to simply rest in the library, his favorite room. His library at Pemberley was twice as large as Netherfield's, not that he would ever point out such a fact to Charles. And not that Bingley would care. After perusing the shelves—all covered by a layer of fine dust—Darcy was reasonably certain that not one of the Bingleys had ever spent more than ten seconds in this room, and that was only if they'd wandered in here by accident.

Therefore, it was perfect.

He'd written to Georgiana and Fitzwilliam this morning, as well as his Aunt Catherine and his steward. He'd also drafted a letter about the purchase of a new type of fertilizer, though by that point his hand ached and his mind could no longer follow a coherent train of thought…

All because of her.

Elizabeth Bennet was in this house. He'd thought of her, as he drank brandy with Bingley until five in the morning. He'd thought of her, when he finally went to his cold bed in his empty chambers. He'd turned and rolled and been unable to sleep, wondering what room she was in. Wondering what she thought of him.

He'd woken up too early, wondering where she was.

And he'd eaten before any of the other guests in the house were awake, alone in the cold dining room, with only a yawning footman running to and from the kitchens to get him tea and an egg. He'd told himself it was because he had an estate to run, but truly, if he were being honest—he was being a coward. He was avoiding _her_.

Darcy groaned and ran his hands over his face.

And that's when he heard the noise. Like a rumble of distant thunder, there was some sort of chaotic sound outside the room. And then it grew closer, and louder, and slowly distinguished itself as voices. Many, many voices. It sounded as if everyone in the house were tromping down the halls of Netherfield together.

And—Darcy sat up straight, groaning—headed directly toward him.

The library doors flew open and Bingley stood there, grinning and shouting his name. "There you are, Darcy. I hope we are not disturbing you!"

Bingley ushered Jane Bennet and her parents into the library first. Caroline and Louisa were close behind, sighing and trying not to stand close to the younger Bennet girls, who were perpetually giggling. The clergyman in black came next, trailed by the serious-looking daughter and…

"Miss Elizabeth."

Like a fool, he uttered her name first as he stood up. Thankfully, in the moment it took Darcy to stand and stutter like a lovesick cad, Bingley had already begun a tour of the room. The bulk of the people had followed him into the far corner—Bingley was describing the poetry section as the "horticulture end"—and so Miss Elizabeth was, in fact, relatively close to him as he stood and blurted out her name.

 _Dear God, pull yourself together, man._

"Mr. Darcy," Miss Elizabeth said, bowing her head and coming to stand next to the fire.

Darcy hung his head for just a moment, before recovering himself. She wore a gown of the deepest green, and it served somehow to make her appear more alive and yet more otherworldly, all at once.

 _She might as well be a mythical forest creature_ , he reprimanded himself. _For if you try to touch her, she will most assuredly disappear before your eyes…_

 _Or, if you actually touch her, she'll be forced to become your wife_ , a devious voice added. He was disturbed at not-horrifying that prospect appeared.

"Are you well, Sir?" Miss Elizabeth said, cocking her head in concern. "You look…flushed."

"Yes, thank you. I was simply sitting too close to the fire."

She nodded as if this were a normal, everyday occurrence and looked around the room. "It is a very grand library. It puts my father's collection of books to shame, I must admit. If my father had his way, he would also pull up a chair too close to the fire, and hide—excuse me, _study_ —the day away."

Darcy felt a smile tug at his lips. "Are you accusing me of hiding, Miss Elizabeth?"

"I accused you of nothing, Mr. Darcy. But perhaps you have a guilty conscience, and it warps my simple observation into a personal accusation?"

 _Guilty, indeed._

She leaned closer and whispered. "But perhaps you are guilty? And then I know your secret?"

He cleared his throat, frozen. Had she seen him surreptitiously studying her? Did he know that he could not stop his eyes from swiftly traveling to the swell of her breasts, where her milk-white skin strained against the green velvet fabric? He had hoped that his transgression was swift enough—and the lady innocent enough—that she had not noticed his wandering eyes.

But had she seen him? And did she take his—his abhorrent obsession with her beauty—in such stride? Was she _teasing_ him?

"My secret?" Darcy said, frozen beside the raging fire.

"Well, not really a secret. You told me yourself last night that you do not converse easily with those whom you do not know."

Relief flooded through him and he took a deep breath. But even that was a mistake, for her clean, floral scent flooded his senses.

"Though, you _do_ know Mr. Bingley and his sisters," she continued. "So I can only assume it is not trepidation of small talk that makes you hide here."

"No?" Mr. Darcy shifted. She watched him, a small smile playing at her lips. "Then why am I 'hiding' here, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Nine pins," she said simply. "You have heard that they are setting up nine pins in the ballroom, and you do not want it discovered that you have dreadful aim."

She smiled then, as if pleased with her silly joke—and with playing at insulting him. It was such a pretty, bright, easy smile that he could not help but smile back. This, however, seemed to shock her; as soon as their eyes met and they grinned at each other, she suddenly faltered and seemed to fall back into herself.

He didn't want that to happen. He wanted her smiles back. He liked them. He liked earning them.

But before he could attempt to coach another of those fascinating, bright grins from her, Bingley finished his tour and came to stand with them by the fireplace. "Darcy! Has Miss Elizabeth told you? We're bringing the outdoors game indoors. Nine pins in the ballroom! You will play, won't you?"

"Miss Elizabeth fears for my reputation, as she assumes I have no skills in that arena," Darcy said.

"No skills!" Bingley said as if shocked. Then he frowned and rubbed his head. "Well, I must admit, I've never seen you play such a game, not even at school. Can it be true, then?"

Darcy smiled. "There's only one way to find out."

Caroline joined the group and came to stand by Darcy's side. She smiled up at him, as if she and he shared a personal relationship. Darcy stiffened, wondering if Miss Elizabeth would notice Caroline's subtle cues that she knew him more than any other woman in the world.

Darcy watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, even as he tried to pay attention to Bingley setting out the rules of the game. Elizabeth stiffened as Caroline moved even closer, the sleeve of her dress brushing against Darcy's coat. Darcy could not deny the slight, foolish thrill that ran up his spine: Elizabeth had noticed. And she did not seem pleased.

Did this mean—did this mean there was a chance she might care if another woman was vying for his attention?

When Darcy had spent time with the Bingleys in London, he had witnessed Caroline attempt to artfully capture quite a few young gentlemen's affections. He'd heard her crow to her sister on the days after balls, that _this_ Sir or _that_ Earl's second son had said this or that. She always made sure that Darcy was in the room when she relayed these stories. For the first time, Darcy understood the impulse.

But, he was not a flirt. He was not a play actor.

He was a _Darcy_.

And he did not play games—even when faced with nine pins.

He went after what he wanted.

But…did he want… _Elizabeth_? What, exactly, _was_ he playing at?

"Are there teams?" Kitty asked. "Lydia and I are always on the same team."

"If we don't have teams," Caroline said, "These games might take _forever_." It was clear that she was not amused at the prospect of lawn games indoors, though Darcy could see that she would not enjoy any amusements with the Bennets.

"Yes, let us play on teams. Each person may take turns tossing the balls." Bingley turned and bowed to Jane. "Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of being my partner?"

Jane blushed prettily. "I'm afraid I've no aim, Mr. Bingley. Are you sure you would not wish to choose a more skilled partner?"

It was Bingley's turn to blush, and Darcy knew what the man was thinking, even if the elder Miss Bennet did not. "I—I would have no one else, Miss Bennet."

"I shall remain here," Mr. Bennett announced. "If Mr. Bingley shall allow me use of his library."

"Of course, Sir, of course!" Bingley agreed eagerly.

But Mrs. Bennet was not pleased. "Then who shall be my partner?" she cried. She turned eagerly to Mr. Collins, but the young man ignored her and addressed the room, instead.

"I fear this game maybe not be ideal. I have heard that lawn bowling is commonly associated with drinking and gambling, activities that a man of my caliber cannot be connected with! They are dreadful vices. Why, what would your illustrious Aunt Catherine say, Mr. Darcy, if she would learn of me, _bowling_?"

Darcy grit his teeth. "If she saw _you_ bowling? I assume she would bet on one of the other teams."

Elizabeth surprised him by laughing, and then masking the noise and coughing into her fist. Her younger sisters weren't as reserved, and they laughed openly before rushing to follow Bingley and Jane out the door.

"But who shall my partner be?" Mrs. Bennet cried. She grabbed her daughter Mary's arm and began to pull her out the door, though the young woman's eyes stayed on Mr. Collins as long as possible before she was dragged from the room.

"I will stay here in the library as well," Mr. Hurst announced. Darcy noted Mr. Bennet rolling his eyes, but he was sure the elder gentleman would be pleased by Mr. Hurst's companionship: Mr. Hurst had the ability to fall asleep within three minutes, if food or cards were not nearby.

Caroline turned and smiled brightly up at him. "Mr. Darcy, do you have a partner yet?" She did not wait for him to answer, but addressed Elizabeth. "Miss Elizabeth, I had the privilege to play such a game when my brother and I visited Pemberley this past summer. Mr. Darcy was a most excellent teacher. Why, I could barely throw a ball in a straight line before he assisted me!"

Darcy forced himself not to grimace. Bingley and Caroline had been his guests at Pemberley for a fortnight over the summer, and he had vowed it would be the last time he was the only unmarried man trapped for weeks at a time with Caroline.

"And now you can throw a ball. I'm very happy for you," Elizabeth said drily.

Caroline sniffed. "I do not make it a practice to play such childish games. But since your _sisters_ have so insisted…"

"You will be an elegant hostess, yes." Elizabeth bowed slightly. "I believe I will stay here in the library with my father."

Mr. Collins spoke up, after overhearing her words. "The betterment of the mind, my dear! Excellent choice. I will sit with you and—"

"Actually, I had forgotten," Elizabeth said, turning away from him. "I am promised as someone's partner."

And then Darcy acted—he did not plan out what he would say. He did not repeat it a few times in his mind, to make sure that it was the proper statement at the proper time to the proper people. He took a step toward Elizabeth and said, "Yes. Thank you for agreeing to be my partner, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth's brown eyes grew larger and—for once—she had no reply. But she quickly regained her sense of composure and nodded serenely. Darcy could not help but smile; she was all propriety on the outside, but he could see her eyes flashing. He could _feel_ her frustration and confusion and relief, all aimed at him.

It was, he realized, very similar to what he felt inside. Confused, frustrated, and elated. But he felt himself giving in to his desires. She was here. There was no escaping her—the storm trapped them bodily together, and he could no longer escape his impulses. He wanted to know this woman. He wanted to see why he…why he _liked_ her so much.

And he wanted her to like him. Why did she not like him?

Mr. Collins stared, flustered, as Darcy guided Miss Elizabeth out the door. Caroline followed close behind, but not so close that Elizabeth could not quietly reprimand him. "Sir, we made no such agreement. Why did you declare it so?"

Darcy resisted leaning toward her, though he could imagine what it would be like to have a relationship with Miss Bennet. How lovely, if she were his…friend. He would not have to be so formal and stiff. He could offer her his arm, and bend down to whisper back in her sweet, shell-shaped ear.

"I was thinking of your ankle."

"My what!" Her cheeks colored and she glared at him.

"Your ankle—how dancing with Mr. Collins injured you last night. I was afraid Mr. Collins might become dangerous, should he have missiles at his disposal."

She took a deep breath and lifted her pert little nose in the air. "Nine pins does not exactly involve missiles, Mr. Darcy. I imagine even Mr. Collins could manage to throw a ball and not injure anyone."

"Are you certain of that?"

She glanced up at him, and he watched in fascination as she bit her bottom lip so as…not to smile? He could not help the burst of pride that filled his chest; he was making her laugh! Even if she was too stubborn to do so outright.

When was the last time he had tried to _amuse_ anyone? He faltered for a moment. The last time he'd worked hard to make someone smile—had it really been when his sister was young? And what did that say about his life now?

"Are you making a joke, Mr. Darcy?"

"Me? Never," he said.

Now she laughed out loud. "You are different here. Different than I expected. I could almost imagine we could be friends, but for—" She bit her lip again, but this time she looked concerned.

Darcy wished that he didn't sense Caroline, desperately racing toward them from behind. _But for what?_ He did not get the chance to ask, for Caroline had reached them and now he was trapped between the two women.

On his left, Elizabeth stared straight ahead and engaged with him no more. Caroline, on his right, made such a great show of breathlessness that he was obliged to offer her his arm so that she might walk in a straight line.

As the group approached the open ballroom doors, they could hear shrieks of laughter, Mrs. Bennet exclaiming, and Bingley shouting about which pins were worth how many points.

"Miss Elizabeth, I do hope you are worthy of your partner," Caroline said as they entered the room. "He is quite the sportsman."

"I cannot claim to excel at nine pins," Elizabeth said. "But I shall aim to compete as well as I can."

Both women had stopped and were staring at each other. The fact that Caroline was taller did not seem to cow Elizabeth, and Darcy could not help but admire how she tilted up her chin and stood straighter. He had the feeling Elizabeth Bennet could take on anything—Caroline, a pack of wild dogs, a French army—and still look so determined and beautiful and strong, all at once.

Caroline sniffed. "There's Louisa. I know she shall be my partner. We should wager on something, don't you think?"

"Wager on who will be required to sit next to Mr. Collins at dinner," Elizabeth said. "should he discover our gambling."

"Do you fear him so?" Caroline raised an eyebrow.

"I do not fear him at all. But he has been our houseguest for the past fortnight; let me assure you that you do not wish to be his dinner partner."

Caroline sniffed and turned toward him, pasting a bright smile across her face. "Mr. Darcy, _you_ should be the prize! Whomever wins is allowed to sit next to Mr. Darcy. I should know, he is an _excellent_ conversationalist."

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. "I would never describe myself as such." _And Caroline knows that._

"You are too humble," Caroline said, smiling triumphantly at Elizabeth before she flounced through the room to her sister's side.

Elizabeth glanced up at him, her eyes dancing.

"You are amused?" he said, conscious of how tall her was next to her petite form. It made him want to protect her, while the challenge in her eyes made him want to spar with her. Verbally, at the very least.

"Truthfully? 'Humble' would have been one of the last words I would have used to describe you, Mr. Darcy."

He stepped back on his heels. What did she mean by this? He paused, that familiar tension rising in him. The stiffness and formality that descended on him, when in a room full of people he did not know.

And now, when standing in front of confounding woman whom he wanted to flee from and kiss, all at once.

Darcy watched the chaos in front of them. Bingley stood in the center of the room, holding a pin above his head and shouting about which pins count for three, four or five. Jane stood nearby, repeating what he said in earnest. Caroline stood near a wall with her sister, both practicing their tossing motions and arguing over form. Mrs. Bennet was arguing with Mary over where to stand for the optimal shot. And Kitty and Lydia were standing on the opposite side of the ballroom, dancing around the nine pins and knocking them over, much to Bingley's gentle consternation.

He cleared his throat and finally said, "You give your opinion quite decidedly, Miss Elizabeth."

"And does that offend you, Sir?" She stopped and turned to stare at him, a challenging look in her pretty, bright eyes. Darcy realized that despite his nerves, he was smiling. How long had it been since he had matched wits with anyone, much less a beautiful young woman?

"Do I look offended?" he said, allowing his smile to widen.

She raised her eyebrows. "Do you answer every question with a question?"

He laughed. "No. And you do not offend me. I appreciate a person who knows himself—or herself—well enough to express their opinions."

"And not be cowed by you, in all your stately glory?"

He stopped and stared at her, realizing they were slowly making their way in a circle around the large, open ballroom. It had been cleared of any evidence of the night before.

"I am truly asking," he said. "Do I appear so very—stately? Or do you wish to offend me, Miss Elizabeth?"

"I would not wish to offend anyone. I am merely trying to make out your character, Mr. Darcy."

"Is my character so very mysterious, then?" he said.

"When you respond to my questions with more questions, I believe you are attempting to be mysterious."

He paused, feeling daring, and thinking of her sitting with him last night. "Perhaps I am trying to work out your character, Miss Elizabeth."

She turned, regarding him archly. "Until today, I would have said we have a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb."

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure." Darcy clenched his fist as they made another turn around the room. He did not know her mind, or how she had gone from laughing to…attacking him. "How near it may be to _mine_ , I cannot pretend to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly."

She shrugged. "I must not decide on my own performance."

He made no answer, and they were again silent as they walked down the length of the ballroom. The only sounds were the discussion of the players and the occasional smack of the ball on the wood pins.

As they turned again at the end of the room, she remarked, "It is strange to think, that just last night this room was full of dancers and friends and merriment. How quickly it has all been erased."

"Does this make you melancholy?"

"It makes me feel for the maids and footmen who had to work so hard to perform this magic. And yes, I suppose it makes me melancholy, a bit. When there is a ball, a girl has such grand expectations. You cannot help it, no matter how rational you might attempt to be. There are days of anticipation, and once it is all over, you must adjust to your everyday life again."

Darcy watched her face closely. She both spoke the truth, and yet concealed some deeper emotions beneath the smooth, perfect surface of her skin. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he cared to know what another person was thinking. And that bothered him exceedingly: how unfeeling had he become toward others? Had he truly never sought out another person's good opinion? Had everyone around him given him their good opinion so easily, based on his being…who he was?

Having what he did?

Indeed, the only person who had ever caused havoc in his life was George Wickham, and whether that was due to a deficiency of character, or jealousy, or both, he did not know. He had tried to erase the man from his—and Georgiana's—lives.

And yet, the image of Wickham walking with the Bennet ladies filled his mind, and his heart, with quiet, desperate rage.

"And did all your anticipated hopes come true last night?" he asked. They turned another corner, and her skirts brushed against his legs, for one brief moment.

"In truth? No."

"Ah yes, dancing with Mr. Collins." He tried to make a joke, but his mind was filled with worry about Wickham.

Nor did she smile. Elizabeth kept her face averted, studying her sisters in the center of the room. "I had hoped to see a new friend at the ball last night. When you met my sisters and I in Meryton the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."

Darcy stopped walking, a deep, old anger resurfacing in his heart. She brought up Wickham? Here? Now?

 _She had wished to dance with him last night?_

Darcy forced his voice to remain low and even, but it took an effort to respond to her and not reveal everything: every wicked deed Wickham had done, and every particle of anger that still swirled through Darcy's soul.

"I presume you speak of Mr. Wickham?"

"I do."

"He is blessed with such happy manners, as may ensure his _making_ friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is less certain."

Now it was her turn to stop, and Elizabeth turned and stared up at him. Ah, there it was. The lift of the chin, the tilt of the nose. Her flashing brown eyes. Her full pink lips, angry and speaking quickly.

Why did his chest ache and heave so? Why did he care what she thought—why did her anger make him want to draw _closer_ , rather than step away and erase her from his life altogether?

"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,"' she replied with emphasis, "And in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."

Darcy took a step closer to her quivering form. "You defend him, then?" He felt himself shaking with rage, but he could not be mad at Elizabeth—it was Wickham. Trying to twist another woman's opinion of him. And who knows what else he might attempt to do…

He could not leave this be. What if Wickham seduced Elizabeth, the same way he had Georgiana? Darcy did not think Elizabeth that naïve about love, but here she was, _defending_ that man. What lies had he told her? Darcy wanted to tell her everything, tell her the truth—now—but how to do that and protect his sister at the same time?

"I wonder what Mr. Wickham has told you of his past?" Darcy stared at her, a slow feeling of dread overtaking him. "Or perhaps I should ask what Mr. Wickham has told you, regarding _my_ own past."

Elizabeth kept her face still, but she clasped her hands together. She was nervous, he realized. Finally she said, "I have heard such varying accounts as puzzle me exceedingly."

"I would wish to enlighten you," he said, and he was going to say more but then there were footsteps and suddenly all her sisters surrounded them.

"It is your turn, Lizzy! Kitty and I have bested everyone so far, so now you must play us!"

Elizabeth gave him one final, curious look, then turned and clapped her hands as her sisters bombarded her with the story of their last few points.

Darcy followed the chattering women to the center of the room. He was astounded. She defended _Wickham_. Did she care for that scoundrel? He should walk away now. He should forget this woman, this town, forget he ever came here.

But would that leave her vulnerable to Wickham's charms and lies? He should speak to Elizabeth, at least once more, to ensure that she was…safe.

 _Or to ruin Wickham in her eyes, and defend yourself_ , a part of him added.

Was it possible? Could he change the anger in her eyes to—friendship?

 _Or something more?_

"Mr. Darcy, if you wish to choose another partner, I relinquish any claims to you," Elizabeth said from a few paces in front of him. She turned back to stare at him, her cheeks still two pink spots on her face. She was upset by their conversation, he realized. He had the sudden urge to cup her face, to calm her. He could not be mad at her.

She had been fed lies, and he would fix this. He would right it, and all would be right with the world again.

And—he considered the young woman before him—once he did so, perhaps she would look at him with admiration. Or respect.

 _Or more…_

"Mr. Darcy?" she said again.

He realized everyone was staring at him.

"In truth, I have awful aim," Elizabeth said. "Would you prefer another partner?"

"No," he said curtly. He heard her soft intake of breath, but he offered her his arm nonetheless, then stared down into those deep, confusing, burning brown eyes. It was madness, to offer her his arm. To want her. To stay here, in her intoxicating presence.

But perhaps he was tired of always being logical, of always doing the right and proper thing. When was the last time he felt a thrill moving up his spine, simply from a woman's hand on his jacket? When was the last time he imagined touching her back?

He cleared his throat and looked down at Elizabeth Bennet and said, "I have excellent aim. And when I find my target, I never miss."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: A thousand apologies! I am new to Fanfiction, so I had marked this story as "complete." OOPS. I think I now understand that despite the fact that the book is complete (in real life/on my computer), I should not mark it as "complete" HERE until all chapters are uploaded! Mea culpa; I've changed the category designation and will only mark it complete once it's entirely uploaded. I would continue humbly groveling, but I think Darcy will be more interesting... So sorry for the confusion, though!

* * *

Chapter 8: Elizabeth

* * *

Their first day at Netherfield had been interminable. And though Elizabeth had tried to find joy in Jane's obvious happiness, every other aspect of the day had been as slow and continuous as the steady snowfall outside.

She could not decide who in her family was determined to embarrass them all more effectively. Kitty and Lydia were all glee and mischief; they delighted in asking footmen for anything and everything, simply because there _were_ footmen at their disposal.

Elizabeth had tried to put an end to this behavior, but was hushed by her own mother, who said the girls were just having a bit of fun. And then, too loudly, Mrs. Bennet had exclaimed, "After all, perhaps we too will have footmen aplenty in our very near futures!" And she had giggled worse than her daughters, while looking over at Jane and Mr. Bingley, seated across the room.

For her part, Jane had borne it all admirably. She remained pleasant and kind, engaging Caroline and Louisa in pleasant conversational topics that centered entirely around them and their lives. She smiled through their mother's countless soliloquies.

Jane even kept a perfectly serene face when Mary had, in fact, discovered the pianoforte. For once, Elizabeth was thankful Caroline Bingley was nearby. As hostess, Caroline suffered through only one of Mary's songs before declaring it time to dress for dinner.

"Oh," Mrs. Bennet had cried. "But we have no new gowns to wear. If only I had known a freak blizzard was to befall us!"

"Yes," Caroline had said archly. "If only we had all known, we could have cancelled the ball."

But Mr. Bingley had cried, "Not I! Why, if I had known in advance, I should have planned the ball just as it was, for I am greatly enjoying being snowbound with new friends."

And then he had turned to Jane, his heart simply shining from his eyes, and they both had sighed at each other quite beautifully and dramatically.

Elizabeth had turned from staring at her sister and her sister's obvious suitor to find Mr. Darcy glowering in the corner. For that had been the worst of it. Elizabeth realized that she was, to an extent, accustomed to her relatives exposing themselves in and around Meryton. But when they were surrounded by the same people they had all known for simply ever—well, it was what it was.

Everyone knew Sir William Lucas would tell the same tales about going to Court, during every other dinner. And everyone knew Mary would frown at cards and refuse to play. And everyone expected Kitty and Lydia to have high spirits. And everyone knew her mother…well, they all knew what to expect with Mrs. Bennet.

But Mr. Darcy was not everyone. And for the first time, Elizabeth was dismayed—more than dismayed—by her family.

When Kitty and Lydia insisted on dancing this afternoon, Mr. Darcy had sat in the corner, reading and judging them with his eyes.

When Mary had played the pianoforte, Mr. Darcy had suffered through three verses before excusing himself and leaving the room for a moment.

Even during nine pins, he had been stiff and formal and—and maddening! He had asked her about Wickham and then seemed to grow angry and withdrawn, and Elizabeth did not know how to change the mood or even address the topic again.

And she couldn't even go for one of her typical walks.

Outside the snow was so thick you could not see the ornamental hedges, where the verandah ended and the wilderness walks began. Though the view from the library was comforting, and the room warm. She had escaped here while everyone "dressed" for dinner, even though all of the Bennets had only one set of clothing and a few borrowed scarves.

Elizabeth had discovered her father here, as well. They'd shared a quiet time, perusing the wonderful books of Netherfield before Mrs. Bennet had appeared and called for her husband to come be social "with the menfolk" before dinner.

"Lizzy, don't you want to do, well, _something_ with yourself?" Mrs. Bennet had scolded. "Mr. Collins will likely sit near you, and you must pay him more attention."

"I cannot imagine why," Elizabeth had said. Her mother had immediately become incensed, but her father had gently drawn her away, leaving Lizzy to have a few moments of peace.

But her mind was distracted, and she could read more than a few pages before she would find herself staring blindly at the fire. Elizabeth paced the room, then walked to the window and pressed her palm against the cold glass of the window.

 _Mr. Darcy._

What was he doing now? And why did she care?

Her palm began to burn, but she pressed it against the glass a moment longer, then pulled it back and rubbed her warm hand over her cold flesh.

"My apologies, Madam."

A low, masculine voice startled her. Elizabeth closed her eyes. _No, no, it could not be him._

But of course it was.

"Mr. Darcy." Elizabeth turned around and there he was, standing in the open doorway. He had dressed for dinner, his dark blue jacket highlighting his eyes. She could not help but admire his long legs and fine figure, though she forced herself to look him in the eyes.

That was worse, though, for what she found there was…heat.

Fire.

Some fierce emotion she could not name but recognized nonetheless.

Mr. Darcy took a step backward. "I did not mean to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth. I only thought to read before dinner."

She smiled. "Read, or hide from the rest of us?"

She watched his lips, his eyes, as he hesitantly smiled back. They stared at each other for a long moment before she blinked. He did the same, as if waking from a spell.

"Why would I—ah, but I should just answer your question." He smiled somewhat shyly.

"It would be appreciated, but I am growing accustomed to your questions."

He laughed then, and looked so boyish and sweet that Elizabeth felt her heart ache.

"May I—may I join you?" He glanced back at the open doors, and then at her face, as if ensuring her of his propriety.

Why did she feel slightly…disappointed?

"Of course. Or, if you wish to have privacy, I will leave—"

"No! I mean, please stay. If you desire to. I would not scare you away," he said.

Elizabeth sat in one of the two matching chairs, set close to the fire. "You do not scare me, Mr. Darcy."

He sat across from her. "I am glad. Being around you has taught me that—that many do fear me. But not you. Never…you."

The fire highlighted his high cheekbones and he cocked his head, studying her. Elizabeth did not know quite what to say. His words, his way of seeing her, seemed so very personal. But they also brought to mind Mr. Wickham, which brought to mind the heated conversation from this afternoon.

Perhaps Mr. Darcy was remembering this as well, for he grew silent and stared at the fire. Elizabeth pretended to do so, but surreptitiously studied him from the corner of her eye. His clothing was simple but expensive. His dark hair was curled slightly and damp, and Elizabeth wondered if his valet had provided him with hot water and a cloth, as the maids had done for Jane and herself.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, finally looking at her.

 _Finally_. Oh, but he was handsome when he was serious. Elizabeth wished she didn't notice his perfection.

It was annoying. And distracting.

She forced herself to remember Mr. Darcy's horrified face, when he discovered he would be trapped at Netherfield with her and her family. Or his stern, disproving glare as her sisters had cavorted loudly all afternoon. She decided to ask him—or goad him, perhaps. She did not know what made her press him, but she needed—she needed to do something. She could not just _sit_ here, while they stared at one another silently.

Mr. Wickham had been so _easy_ to get to know. Why was Mr. Darcy so difficult? And why did she want to work even harder, then, to discover his true nature?

"So, _are_ you hiding from anyone in particular, then? You must be honest with me. It is a full moon and a snowy night. It feels almost magical—the sky so black and blue, and the world so white and silent. I do believe it would be bad luck to tell a lie, tonight."

He half-laughed and stared at her as if she were a changeling, just discovered in his home. He shook his head slightly, as if to say, _Who are you?_

"Though you must know, I never lie. I abhor lies, so you should always tell me the truth." She had no idea what she was saying, but she felt half-drunk on the way he looked at her, on the way he tried to puzzle her out. Wickham had never looked at her like this.

No man had.

Mr. Darcy spoke, finally. "You value honesty above all else, then, Miss Elizabeth?"

"You have answered my query with another question, Sir. But I will answer you outright: I value honesty well enough. I am not old or wise enough to know if is what I prize above _all_ else."

He processed this, the fire crackling and his eyes heavy-lidded as he stared at her. Elizabeth felt that strange, lovely claustrophobic feeling again: as if the world were pinholing down to just this room, just him and her. As if time were stopping, as if even the flames in the grate moved slower and with a quieter, muted heat.

Mr. Darcy blinked and then surprised her by roughly running his hand down his face. A tell, she thought. If she were to play a game of cards and he made that motion, she would double her bet.

"Miss Elizabeth, I have wanted to discuss a matter of great importance with you for some time. May I have your permission to speak freely?" As Mr. Darcy spoke, he glanced back at the open doors, as if ensuring they were alone.

Elizabeth felt herself freeze in place. Why would he want to speak with her alone? It could not—it could not be something as insane as—

He was not _making an offer_ , was he?!

"But it is not my story to tell, and so I have hesitated. I would ask for your discretion," he said quietly. "It concerns another, and I would not betray _her_ trust or privacy for all the world."

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, exhaling. She hadn't even known she was holding her breath. What a fool she was! First, to pin so many hopes on Wickham. And now, like an idiot, to think that—that Mr. Darcy, of all people—had any interest in her!

She took a deep breath and placed her hands over her stomach.

 _I can never tell anyone about this moment. What a silly, silly girl I am. And worse: was I…excited? Did I hold some form of hope and_ affection _for this man?_

"Miss Elizabeth, are you well?"

"I am fine," she said, her voice thick. "Rather, I would hope you know that I would never share your story—your friend's story—with anyone, without express permission."

 _Another woman. A woman he would not hurt, for all the world._

She ignored the painful feeling that arose at his words. It greatly resembled jealousy and lost hopes—hopes she hadn't known she felt until just now.

He nodded and exhaled, as well. "Earlier today you said that you were attempting to make out my character. I—I believe you have been told misinformation about myself, and my life. And my relationship with a certain gentleman."

Mr. Darcy could barely look at her. His voice was low, deep and pitched so that she had to lean forward slightly to hear his words. Elizabeth watched as he clenched his jaw, a tic pulsing ever so slightly high on his cheek.

She surprised herself by wanting, suddenly, to run her hands along it. To sooth him.

"It is none of my business. Nor my concern," she answered quietly.

He spoke quickly and urgently. "I have struggled mightily with what to tell the world about George Wickham. I fear you will not believe me, but I must warn you away from that man."

"Mr. Darcy, why do you say I would not believe you?"

Mr. Darcy's blue eyes burned into hers. "I am aware that Wickham is a favorite of you and your sisters. And that I am not…a friend."

Elizabeth was at a loss. There was so much she wanted to ask. But how could she admit that Wickham had been a favorite of hers…and yet, that she had barely remembered his very existence, since being in the presence of the confounding Mr. Darcy? That she had literally thought Mr. Darcy himself had intentions for her, not a minute ago?

"Mr. Wickham is a new friend. He is merry and likes to laugh, which makes him a well-liked acquaintance—liked by all my sisters. But he is no more than that." She met his eyes. "And I would listen to what you have to say. Most eagerly, even if we are not…friends. Please, if you have information to share, I am most eager to hear it."

Elizabeth made sure she kept her face calm, but her head was pounding and she could not stop wondering who this woman was. Someone who had been hurt by Wickham? Of course. If Mr. Wickham had injured a woman that Mr. Darcy loved, that would explain the animosity between the two men.

 _Someone Mr. Darcy loved…_

"Am I distressing you?" he asked. "I would not do so, for all the world—"

"There you are!"

Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy jumped as a voice shouted from the hall. And then her mother came bustling into the room, and stopped short with a shriek when she saw Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, sitting near the fire.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you for all your kind and helpful comments! I so appreciate them! I ended up not being able to get to my computer all day yesterday, but I'll try to double up and post quite a few chapters today! I have tried to mark this story as NOT COMPLETE (yet), but it looks like the category designation might not have changed. If so, I apologize for any confusion - there are 19 chapters in this book, so we are just about at the half-way mark...

* * *

Chapter 9: Darcy

* * *

He was not able to speak with her after that. But he could not keep his eyes off of her.

And a confounding discovery: Darcy felt that as long as he could _see_ Elizabeth Bennet—watch her face, discover her shades of emotion—then he felt calm.

Or, somewhat in control.

But once he could not see her, he became agitated. Wary and pacing.

It was like a beast had been unleashed inside of him.

After Mrs. Bennet had discovered them in the library, the older woman had vacillated between outright hostility toward him and confusion at her daughter. She had hustled Elizabeth to dinner, barely acknowledging him and refusing to walk close by. But for the first time, once they were all seated at the table, Darcy saw that it was not just Mr. Collins who pursued Elizabeth Bennet.

It was her mother who was pushing them together.

"Darcy, did you hear? We might go skating on the ice tomorrow!"

Darcy blinked and focused on Bingley at the head of the table. "Skating?"

Caroline, on his right, cleared her voice and said huskily, "Yes, Mr. Greene the butler says there are plenty of skating shoes in storage. How remarkable, to glide on ice? Oh, but I am simply terrified thinking of it. Would you help me tomorrow?"

Darcy forced himself to take a deep breath before he answered her. He did not want to hurt her or be curt, but he in no way wanted to encourage Caroline in her foolish pursuit of him.

Especially in front of Elizabeth Bennet.

He could not control himself. He looked up and sought Elizabeth's face. There were those deep, dark eyes staring at him. When had they begun to communicate without words? She stared at him as if encouraging him, as if saying, _You can stand this. You can stand these fools._

No, he was the fool.

That was not what Elizabeth was saying to him. She probably simply wondered what in the blazes he had begun to tell her there, in the library. She was a curious, intelligent woman. She just wanted to know what…

He stopped thinking as she took a sip of wine, closing her eyes to luxuriate in the taste.

 _What would she taste like?_

"Mr. Darcy?" Caroline spoke again, and he forced himself to attend to their conversation.

"Metal blades on _shoes_?" Mr. Hurst declared. "It sounds rather dangerous to me. We shan't be involved, Mrs. Hurst."

The rest of the table ignored him and discussed other activities they could plan for a second, snowy day.

Mr. Collins monopolized Miss Elizabeth's conversation, but Darcy saw clearly now that she loathed him. Of course, he had known she felt little affection for the man—but now that he saw how very little, it was heartening.

After dinner, the men retired to smoke and drink, while the ladies went to set up whist in the yellow parlor. Darcy could scarcely pay attention to Bingley, who spoke only of Jane and asked her father a million questions, from her favorite color to her favorite dessert. Mr. Bennet bore it all with the patience of a saint, though Mr. Hurst was asleep on the sofa within five minutes. Darcy finally stood and walked over to the window, staring out over the frozen night which was just as Elizabeth had described.

"Happy plans, happy plans," Mr. Collins said, sidling up to Darcy.

Darcy raised an eyebrow, trying to remember if he had ever seen this man at his aunt's estate before. If he had, he had blocked it from his memory.

"Mr. Bingley and cousin Jane," Mr. Collins explained. "It seems as if felicitations will soon be due to the happy couple."

"I know not of what you speak," Darcy said. He would not _gossip_.

"Ah, well, let me enlighten you!" the shorter man clapped his hands together gleefully. "I would not speak of it in mixed company, but it is a fact that the Bennets' estate, Longbourn, is entailed to me. Due to a disagreement between my father and his brother, Mr. Bennet, I had never actually visited that lovely place. But now that I am of age, and now that my gracious patron—your illustrious Aunt Catherine de Bourgh—has explained to me how very fitting it is for a man of my stature to be married…"

Darcy stared down at him, and tried to separate his innate dislike of Mr. Collins from his vast, searing loathing at the idea of this man even touching Elizabeth Bennet.

Mr. Collins cleared his throat. "I—I knew that the Bennetts had five daughters. I thought what a kindness—what a generosity!—for me to choose a wife from among those humble young ladies. Of course, I had been set on the idea of the eldest."

"Jane Bennett?" Darcy said, incredulously.

"Yes, but her mother informed me she already had an understanding with someone. I see now that it is Mr. Bingley."

Darcy stared at Bingley from across the room, and then at Mr. Bennet. "An understanding," he repeated.

"So naturally I looked for the next prettiest—er, _eldest_ daughter."

"Miss Elizabeth?" Darcy felt his vision cloud with a red mist of rage. He had no right to feel this way. But he did. He could not deny it.

"Yes. I'm sure you saw us dancing at the ball." Mr. Collins leaned back and clasped his arms together. " _Two_ dances, you know."

"Excuse me," Darcy found himself growling. He could not stand to be near that man one more minute.

He ignored Bingley's questioning look and stalked into the hallway, then down the long, shadowy corridor. He could not imagine Elizabeth Bennet with that obsequious fool.

 _You cannot imagine her with Collins or Wickham, because you want her for yourself._

He stopped then, because at the end of the hall stood Elizabeth herself. She was walking swiftly toward him. Once she saw him, she skidded to a stop.

"Mr. Darcy!"

"Miss Elizabeth."

"I was just fetching—"

"I was simply going—"

They both spoke at once, then abruptly stopped.

"My apologies. I was taking some air," he said, feeling like a fool.

"I was getting my mother a shawl. She was chilled."

They stared at each other, and Darcy knew that it wasn't Collins or Wickham or Bingley or any other man who was the greatest idiot in England—it was him.

For he wanted to stay there, on the cold marble—under that ridiculous painting of the sheep in a meadow—and just stare at her.

"You never finished your story, Mr. Darcy. I admit to having been kept in a state of great suspense."

Darcy glanced behind them. There was no one here, nothing but the moonlight coming in from the lone, recessed window.

Darcy could scarcely believe himself. He did not act like this. He did not _usher_ young ladies into a hidden alcove, where they could stand opposite him and be bathed by moonlight. But that is exactly what he did.

And she followed.

"Mr. Darcy?" whispered Elizabeth, for already in his mind he called her that. _Elizabeth. Lizzy. My…Elizabeth._

He shook his head, feeling torn between the weight of this impropriety and the weight of his desire to speak with her. To be near her. "I'm sorry. We can discuss this tomorrow. I will let you return to the ladies."

"Please, don't. It's torture."

"Not knowing the end of my tale?"

"No, playing vingt-et-un with my mother." She laughed then, startling him. The sound was like candlelight in the cold, dark night. "Of course your mysterious tale. But, I did not mean to jest. It sounds serious indeed."

"It is."

She turned to face the frozen vista outside. "And it involves a young woman? I hope she is well and there is a happy ending for her."

"It involves my sister, Georgiana."

Elizabeth turned and gasped. "Your sister!" She covered her mouth, and then her face. "I'm sorry. I meant… _your sister_."

"Please, I ask that you keep this in the strictest confidence. No one—not even Bingley—knows what I am about to tell you."

She dropped her hands and stared at him, her fine skin alabaster in the moonlight. He wanted to step closer to her, but instead he leaned back against the wall. By God, she was beautiful.

But he had to focus.

"I will tell no one. I swear it."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat, and then began to tell the story of Wickham and Georgiana.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: We are at Chapter 10 out of 19 for this novella! :)

* * *

Chapter 10: Elizabeth

* * *

"My sister is sixteen—the same age, I believe—as your sister, Lydia?"

"Lydia is not yet sixteen, but she will be soon." Elizabeth stared up at Mr. Darcy, his face like marble in the moonlight. He was like a living statue: so perfectly carved, so cold, so untouchable.

But here he was, almost close enough for her to reach out and grasp his hand. She watched his bare hand, as he ran a knuckle over the cold glass. It was an echo of her earlier movement in the library. She knew now his skin would be cold to the touch. She wondered what his hands were like: rough or smooth? What would it be like to hold hands with man? She had only ever touched men while dancing and wearing gloves.

She shook her head and forced herself to focus. She was losing her mind. Perhaps the moonlight really was full of wicked, fairy madness.

"Yes, not yet sixteen," he repeatedly quietly. "And she is so very full of…life."

Elizabeth made a slight, scoffing sound. "You are too kind. I know you find her—overly animated. I admit to having had similar thoughts myself, and I love her dearly."

Mr. Darcy stared down at her. "I do not find her overly anything." He laughed quietly when Elizabeth made a disbelieving face. "Very well, when I first met her, I did find her to be a bit…bold. My sister would never act like yours."

"You are overly generous in your assessment," Elizabeth said. She tried to act flippant, but it hurt: to know that his sister was so much more refined—better?—than hers. Better behaved, at any rate.

"But the more I watched her—and your family—the more I realized: I should be lucky if Georgiana were more like Lydia, or Kitty…or you, truth be told. Though I hold you in higher esteem than—anyone."

She stared up at him. _Higher esteem?_ But before she could wrap her mind around that particular aside, he continued with his tale.

"Because my dear sister—my only link to my parents, who passed too early—is not lively. She is not bold. And I think I would give the world if she would dance and laugh and cavort for even one hour, the way your sisters have done all day."

"Please, go on."

"I'm sure Wickham told you that he and I grew up together."

"Yes. He said his father was your father's steward—he spoke very highly of your father."

"As he should. I am glad, at least, to find that he does not try to mar the memory of that great man. My father adored George, as he called him. And he set aside a good living as a clergyman for George, once he came of age. Is this what Wickham told you—perhaps I should ask you what he has said, before I continue?"

Footsteps down the hall interrupted their hushed conversation

Elizabeth did not plan to be devious, or draw back further into the alcove—but that is exactly what she did. She did not want them to be interrupted. Not yet. She told herself it was because she _needed_ to discover the truth about Mr. Wickham. But the truth was, even if Mr. Darcy had no story to tell, she would want to be here. With him.

"Who is it?" he said, stepping forward, but she put her hand up, almost as if to grasp his arm. He stopped suddenly, staring at her hand as it floated in air, in the moonlight. They both stopped speaking and watched one another, waiting as the clipped footsteps moved closer and closer.

And then passed them by.

Elizabeth glanced out of the alcove.

"I think it was a maid," she whispered. "Please continue."

"We should not be doing this," Mr. Darcy said.

And then slowly, oh so infinitely slowly, he raised his hand to grasp hers.

His hand was warm and smooth and strong, and large. It engulfed her hand, held her nestled in his palm.

"Miss—" he stuttered slightly, " _Elizabeth_. I should let you go."

 _No_ , she thought, _that will not happen_. _I do not want to go_. But she could not say that. Instead, she closed her eyes and gasped as he squeezed her hand gently. He ran his thumb in a circle across her palm, once, twice, three times. A wicked, wonderful shivering went up and down her spine, and Elizabeth felt breathless and airy, as if she were for a moment as insubstantial as the moonlight.

"I should let you go," he repeated. And then slowly, almost regretfully, he released her hand. Elizabeth cradle the touched hand with her other palm, wondering, _Is this what people do? Do young ladies meet men with burning blue eyes in secret, hideaway places? Do they hold hands and then walk away, never acknowledging it but carrying about the knowledge that they have touched – they have touched – all the next day?_

"You should go," he said again gently. _Oh so gently_. "You will be missed."

She wanted to ask, _Will_ you _miss me_?

Instead, she shook her head and said, "No one misses me at the moment. And I must take this opportunity to tell you what Mr. Wickham told _me_. He had asked me to keep this in the strictest confidence. I have relayed it to no one, not even to Jane or my other sisters."

He again leaned back against the wall, his hair mussed and his eyes intense. He crossed his arms and Elizabeth wondered if he was angry, or if he wanted to touch her again but would not let himself. "Thank you for trusting me. Please, tell me what he said."

"He said that after your father passed, you took away his living. For—for no reason. That you were always jealous of him. That everyone liked him better than you," she paused, hating to say this to Mr. Darcy. Hating the fact that _she_ had liked Wickham better at first! "Even your own father."

He laughed once, a cold, hollow sound. "I will grant that, perhaps first impressions gift Mr. Wickham with more friends than me. But as I have said before, whether he can keep his friends is another matter. And my father—he loved me. He loved Georgiana and our mother and myself, above all else. He loved Wickham, too, but not in the way portrayed to you. He did not see Wickham at school—we went to school together, you see. Once Wickham left Pemberley, he changed. Or perhaps, he had always been that way. He's very pretty, very witty, you know."

Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy's face. A cloud passed over the moon, and they were plunged into shadows. The darkness and his deep, steady voice surrounded her.

"But he is hard, beneath it all. He took to gambling and all vices. He lied to his father, and to mine—but he couldn't lie to me, you see. I knew what he really was. I _saw_ him. And he hated that. And after my father's passing, he came and asked for his living and we made a deal: I didn't think he was meant to be a clergyman. Nor did he, for that matter. So I gave him a great deal of money, enough that he could have done anything—anything he set his mind to."

"And what did he do?" Elizabeth whispered, still in the dark, still mesmerized by his voice.

"What didn't he do?" Mr. Darcy said, bitterly. "He spent it all within a year. He came home to Pemberley in debt, and desperate. I paid off his debts—once—but after that I told him he was cut off. He cursed me and railed at me, and threw things. And then he disappeared from our lives."

The clouds moved and once more they were both bathed in the cold wintery moonlight. Elizabeth pressed her back against the wall, just to feel something steady and sure. "I cannot believe it. He lied to me. And I—I believed him. I thought myself such an excellent judge of character, and yet—"

"Do not blame yourself." Mr. Darcy took a step forward, and though he did not touch her, his eyes caressed her. She closed her own eyes, as if she could feel that warm, sure palm against her cheek.

"Miss Elizabeth," he whispered, taking one step closer. "It is not your fault. You are not the first young woman he has lied to. I will say it quickly, because it is painful: but last year he renewed his friendship with Georgiana. I had never told her, you see, what he had become. I wanted to shield her, protect her from the heartbreak of seeing her childhood companion fall so far from grace."

He paused and they stared at one another, a feeling growing between them like a living creature, something taking shape and growing bigger and bolder.

"What happened next?" Elizabeth whispered.

He took another half-step toward her. They were so close they could almost touch. "Georgiana had an establishment in London, and her companion was named Mrs. Young. I later discovered that this woman had an established relationship with Wickham. She allowed him into Georgiana's home, and life, and she assisted in Georgiana almost eloping with the man."

"No!" Elizabeth gasped and then covered her mouth.

Mr. Darcy hesitantly, almost delicately, placed his hands on her shoulders. "Should I stop? Does it shock you too much?"

Elizabeth dropped her hands, but he did not move his. It was…wildly improper.

And it was wonderful.

"Go on," she whispered.

He squeezed lightly, as if afraid to hurt her. But he didn't let go. He leaned closer. "It was pure luck that Georgiana ignored Wickham and wrote to me, to tell me of their plans. I was able to stop them before—before she was ruined."

As he said this, he seemed to realize he was still _touching_ her.

"I'm sorry." He stepped back, and his angry, cold look returning.

"Don't do that," Elizabeth whispered. She could not believe her boldness, but what did she have to lose? He had been so honest with her. She could be honest with him.

They were…friends. Were they not?

"I did not mean to touch you—"

"I meant, don't turn cold again. Thank you for sharing your sister's story with me. Thank you for warning me, and telling me the truth about Mr. Wickham. But then you stepped back, and looked angry. I know _that_ face. That is what I thought you were: haughty and arrogant and unfeeling. And cold."

"Cold?" he said, his eyes anything but.

"Yes," Elizabeth said. "But you are not cold. You are—a good friend. And brother. And person." _You are so much more than that, but for once I cannot say what is on my mind_. "So please don't retreat. Again, I assure you I will not share your secrets with the world—"

"Elizabeth," he said, stepping closer again. "I am not cold. I am burning. You make me feel as if I am engulfed in flames. And the only reason I withdrew was because if I stood near you one more minute, I would kiss you. I would kiss you, right this very minute."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to—say what?

"You said you wanted honesty. There, you have it."

She could not breath. She could not think. His lips were perfect, his face so close. Was this really happening? He moved gently, hesitantly toward her. She did the same, toward him.

And then they both heard Mr. Bennet, calling her name.

"Good night, Mr. Darcy." Lizzy found herself curtsying, of all things. She could not think—she had to flee. Especially before her father discovered them. Her heart beat as fast a hummingbird's wings, and she did not know how to respond to his confession. So she arched an eyebrow and said, "Thank you for your honesty. My only question is: what took you so long to give it to me?"

His startled laughter followed her down the hall, as she ran toward her family, trying not to act like her heart was about to burst into flames.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Elizabeth

* * *

She did not sleep all night. She could not. The pillow was too soft. The bed was too hard. Jane snored lightly (though she always did that) and the moonlight was maddeningly bright.

She would never forget his face, his eyes, his touch. All of it bathed in white light and made otherworldly.

What had happened? Had it been real?

The next day dawned and Elizabeth went down early for breakfast, half-hoping Mr. Darcy would be there, and half-dreading it. Would he regret what he said? Did he still want to kiss her?

Did she want to kiss him back?

But the only people in the dining room were her mother…and Mr. Collins.

"There you are, Lizzy!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "Come, come, sit by me, dear girl."

Elizabeth was instantly on guard: her mother's tone was amiable and there was a wide smile plastered on her face.

"Mother?" Elizabeth said hesitantly.

"Get your hot cocoa and come here, darling girl!" Mrs. Bennet crooned. "Mr. Collins and I have been having such a lovely chat."

Elizabeth slowly poured a cup of hot cocoa from the sidebar and sat gingerly next to her mother. Across the table, Mr. Collins ate his last bite of sausage and smiled up at her. He had a smear of marmalade on his lips and he took a moment then to loudly slurp his tea.

"About what?" Elizabeth said. She sipped her own drink warily. Everyone was being entirely too pleasant, and her mother was never awake this early.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet giggled like a girl. "It isn't my place to say."

She smiled at Mr. Collins, then motioned for him to wipe his chin. He did so and then announced in a voice as loud as he must use to address his congregation, "May I hope, Madam, for the honor of a private audience with your daughter Elizabeth in the course of this morning?"

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, her mother answered instantly. "Oh, my! Yes, certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy. I am sure she can have no objection!"

Elizabeth turned in horror as her mother began to exit the room. "Mama, do not go. I beg you, you will not go! Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear." But her mother simply waved at her and kept walking.

"I am going away myself!" Elizabeth cried.

Mrs. Bennet paused at the doors and hissed, "No! No nonsense Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are."

Elizabeth stood, and for once Mrs. Bennet seemed to truly see her, to see how very vexed and embarrassed—and about to escape—she appeared.

"Lizzy," her mother barked, "I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins."

Elizabeth considered fleeing the room despite her mother's orders, but after a moment's consideration, she thought it most sensible to simply get it over with as soon and as quietly as possible. So she sat again, and tried to conceal her distress, even as her mother closed the dining room doors and left them alone.

She did not have to wait long, as Mr. Collins stood and began to speak at her, from across the table.

"My dear Elizabeth, believe me that your modesty, far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes, had there not been this little unwillingness. But allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother's permission for this address."

"Oh my," Elizabeth said, feeling trapped in a nightmare.

"You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse," Mr. Collins continued, "however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I arrived at Longbourn, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did."

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and he continued:

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honor of calling patroness.

"Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject. And it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake; and for your own, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her."

"Mr. Collins," Elizabeth said. This had gone far enough.

"Now, it remains to be told why my views were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighborhood, where I assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honored father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem."

"Mr. Collins, please stop."

He ignored her and rounded the table, standing before her with all the grace of a second-rate thespian. "And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection! To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four percents, which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."

Elizabeth felt her world shift, and she was surprised that she did not fall off her chair entirely. And he was still speaking! She had to stop him. She had to stop this, all of this, _now_.

And that's when her father burst into the room, followed by her hysterical mother.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Thank you all for reading and commenting! I am learning from your comments, and of course you guys have wonderful ideas. This is a NOVELLA, so it's a bit short, but now of course I wish I had written more and more! Ah well, next time. I have tried to change this story to "In Progress" but for some reason it won't save the category correctly. But, we only have eight more chapters left, so I'll be posting them quickly.

Things speed up now...here we go!

* * *

Chapter 12: Elizabeth

* * *

"What is the meaning of this?" her father asked, staring in consternation at Mr. Collins, whose mouth had dropped open like a caught trout.

"That is what I should like to know!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "Lizzy, why aren't you crying with happiness?"

"Because I am not happy!" Elizabeth said. "Though I could cry right now."

Mrs. Bennet whirled on Mr. Collins, so swiftly and with so much purpose that he backed up instinctively. He moved so quickly to get away from Mrs. Bennet, that he tripped over a chair and fell to the floor with a loud thud.

"Have you asked her yet?" she hissed, standing over the fallen man, who was rubbing his backside and making no move to stand up again.

"I was in the process of doing so! She has rejected me once, but I am well aware that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favor."

Mr. Bennet groaned and looked Heavenward. "Mrs. Bennet, what have you done?"

"What have _I_ done? What has _she_ done?" her mother cried. "Lizzy, you have ruined all my plans! Say yes to Mr. Collins and make me the happiest of women. Immediately!"

Mr. Collins slowly pulled himself up, still addressing the room. "Sometimes the refusal is repeated for a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what Elizabeth has just said. I am sure we shall both be at the altar, 'ere long!"

Elizabeth stared at the man in horror, then turned to her parents. "Mama, I cannot marry Mr. Collins. I am sure I would not be able to make him happy. And I know he could not make me so."

"Happy? What is this happiness you speak of? You foolish, selfish girl. Will you be happy if you are unmarried, destitute and without a home? Will you be happy if you forfeit your family's estate? If you do not accept him this instant, I will never speak to you again!"

While Elizabeth could easily jest about this being a blessing, in truth her mother's words stung. They hurt, like small daggers all along her heart. She turned to face her father, tears in her eyes. "Papa?" she said.

"There, there," he sighed, "Go take a walk, Lizzy. I will speak to your mother." He voice darkened as he stared at the young man in the room. "And your cousin."

"Speak to me! You will do no such thing! Lizzy, no one will ever offer for you if you turn Mr. Collins down. How dare you say no, to keeping Longbourn in the family. You selfish, horrible child!"

"Mama, please—"

"Your father will die and we will be without a home, all _thanks to you_!"

Even Mr. Collins withdrew from the venom in Mrs. Bennet's voice. Her father turned toward his wife, his typical, withdrawn demeanor utterly changed. "You have no idea what has been going on here, over the past few days!" Mr. Bennet shouted. "You are blind, woman. If only you had consulted me first..."

Elizabeth could bear no more. She flew from the room, determined not to let her mother or Mr. Collins see her cry. Behind her, she heard her father berating her mother, but she could not pay attention to his words.

Elizabeth flew down the hall, slowing only when she passed the open music room. Inside, Caroline Bingley was singing and Mary was grudgingly accompanying her on the pianoforte. They paid her no heed, and Elizabeth walked faster and faster. Next she passed the yellow parlor, and Elizabeth saw a flash of gray and blue—Mr. Darcy, near the window—but she pressed on.

She had to get out of here, away from Netherfield and her family and—and everyone and everything. At home, she was known to leave the house early and go for early morning walks. Her father was right; a good, proper walk would clear her head.

Lizzy found herself near the kitchens, and the hallway to the servants' quarters upstairs. She walked unnoticed, up to the back door. She knew that finally, today, the sun was shining. The snow had stopped and now the world was simply quiet and white.

And there were a pair of boots and a thick cloak, hanging on a hook by the door. The boots were wet, snow slowly melting off of their soles and into puddles on the floor. Whomever had used them was inside now.

"It's not thievery if I'm only borrowing them," Lizzy whispered. She realized she was shaking, and that her cheeks were wet. But she could not stop. She simply had to _get out of here_.

She pulled off her own walking boots, which while sturdy, did not compare to the ones on the floor. She slipped one stocking-clad foot inside, and was pleased to find they were only a little big.

A maid came upon her, gasping and almost dropping a tray of tea. "Ma'am?" the girl said.

"Do you mind terribly, if I borrow these?" Elizabeth said.

"They're Miss Houston's, Ma'am. She's one of the cooks. I'm sure you could take them, but it's terribly cold outside."

"Thank you. Thank you ever so much." Elizabeth drew the cloak around her and tightened the boots, ignoring the poor girl's horrified expression. "I'm only going for a quick walk. It's fine, really. I do it all the time."

Elizabeth smiled gamely and finally the girl shrugged and said, "We'll have hot tea for you when you return, if you like."

"That sounds lovely," Elizabeth said. She felt like the automaton that had been featured in one of the Gothic novels Kitty and Lydia devoured; she was moving and speaking but could not seem to connect her brain to her actions.

And then her body was out the door, and into the bracing cold and bright sunlight.

Elizabeth ran a few paces on the packed snow and then stopped, sobbing. She allowed herself a moment to cry, then furiously wiped her cheeks. It was a beautiful day. The world was still snow-covered, but the sky was as blue as could be, and the sun sparkled and all the snow shone like a field of miniature diamonds.

And, it wasn't _that_ cold.

Elizabeth walked as far as the packed-down path led, which was only over the verandah and down to the edge of the wilderness. Beyond that, the grounds grew more wild, though Lizzy knew whomever had designed the gardens had carefully structured walkways and vistas.

They had all been obliterated under the snow, however. _And isn't that how it should be?_ she thought. Men—men were foolish. And arrogant. To think they could control the natural world.

She liked the true wilderness better, she decided, even as she stumbled into a snowbank. But her borrowed boots were warm and went all the way up to her knees, and her borrowed cloak was thick and fell to her ankles. She put up the hood and felt better as she trudged further from the house. She could not walk as quickly as she typically did, but that was half the fun.

The breathlessness, the work of it all. The bracing, freezing cold of the air coming into her lungs. The feeling of being alive, alive no matter what—no matter if she were engaged to Mr. Collins, or kissing Mr. Darcy, or far, far away from everyone.

 _Let me just get lost, for a little while_ , she thought.

And so she did.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Darcy

* * *

"Darcy, have you heard a thing I've said?"

Darcy turned and stared at Bingley, who was pacing in front of the fireplace. They were in a small parlor with a drafty fireplace and older furniture, and Darcy had the feeling Bingley was hiding from his sisters.

"I'm sorry, Bingley. You were speaking of…Miss Bennet?"

"You are guessing!" Bingley accused, but he was too good-natured to be upset for more than a moment. "And you are correct. You are too clever for me, old friend."

"She is all you speak of," Darcy said, smiling. "I can't claim cleverness by guessing she is the topic of our conversation, I can only beg your apology that I was not listening."

Darcy glanced again at the doorway. He had just seen Miss Elizabeth walk by—run really. Had she looked upset?

Bingley nodded at Darcy's words and began pacing again. "So, do you think it a good idea?"

She _had_ been upset. Darcy could _feel_ it. "Is what a good idea?"

Bingley stopped suddenly, his boots clacking against the floor and his arms spreading wide with exasperation. "Me, making an offer for Miss Bennet!"

Darcy stared down at his own boots, perfectly polished. They shone so well he could almost see his reflection in them. They were just like everything else in his life: perfectly appropriate and perfectly maintained. Someone else had purchased them, knowing what a man of his station should wear. His valet buffed them and kept them in order.

Everything in his life was orderly, stately, clean and supposedly perfect. But—none of it made him happy. He had no spark. He'd had no…challenges. He'd allowed his world to become a rarified bubble of expectations met and maintained.

Where was the joy in that?

In his mind's eye, he saw Elizabeth's face as she'd appeared so quickly in the doorway. Then she'd disappeared. Just like in his life: what chance, what fate, had caused him to come _here_ , now? He'd almost told Bingley to look closer to London for an estate. How easily they could have done that.

How easily he could have chosen another path, and never met Elizabeth Bennet.

"Darcy? Good God, don't keep me in suspense. I want to marry Jane. You've always guided me. Would you give your blessing to this match?"

Darcy took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. _What had Elizabeth been upset about, when she flew by the doorway?_ "Her family is problematic. When I first observed them at your ball, I found her younger sisters to be undisciplined. Her mother and father also showed a lack of restraint and manners. Though Mr. Bennet is a gentleman, I am sure I have no need to point out that his means of supporting his family are inferior to yours."

Bingley colored and crossed his arms, but stood silent, waiting for Darcy to finish his assessment.

"I've upset you."

"You speak the truth." Bingley struggled to remain calm, his cheeks turning nearly as red as his hair. He dropped his head and studied the floor. "And I asked for it."

Darcy paused, thinking of Elizabeth. _Where had she been going?_

 _Had she been in distress?_

"I present you with facts," Darcy said slowly. "But the truth is greater than those individual statements."

Bingley looked up, startled. "Yes?"

"Yes. If you had asked me last month—last week, even—I would have advised you against the match." Darcy paused again. Elizabeth had been rushing toward the kitchens, but she had not yet returned down this hallway. He began to feel more than curious.

He began to worry.

"Darcy, if you can't speak any faster, I shall be forced to throttle you. Don't hold me in suspense! I cannot bear it."

Darcy stood and walked toward the open doors. He glanced out into the long hallway.

It was empty.

"This goes toward the kitchens, yes?" he asked, pointing in the direction Elizabeth had run.

"What? Yes. There's the kitchens, and the stairs to the servants' quarters. Oh, and a door to the back of the house and the herb gardens. But—what are you talking about?"

Darcy turned around and stared at his friend, and then surprised him with a wide, open smile. "The truth is that Jane Bennet makes you happy, and you love her. And if she loves you, you have the means to ignore all my other, smaller, petty considerations. Make her an offer, Bingley. And may she make you the happiest of men."

"Why—thank you! Thank you, Darcy! But I say, where are you going?"

Darcy walked swiftly down the hallway. He could not ignore the growing sense of unease that had taken over his being.

"Darcy? Darcy! Where you off to, man?"

"I'll be back shortly," he called out, not bothering to turn around and check on Bingley. He had no time. Something in him urged him on: _Go, go now. Find her._

"But what are you _doing_?" Bingley cried.

 _What was he doing?_ Darcy didn't answer, not out loud, as he strode faster and faster down the hallway. Soon the passageway ended in a small foyer. He could hear the cook in the kitchen, through the door to his right. A plain stairway ran up to the servants' quarters, as Bingley had said. And there was a large, oak door with a small window near the top, showing the glittering white world outside. And beyond—he could see the horizon, where darker clouds were gathering. In fact, the day had gone from bright white to an ominous gray.

"Sir?" A young maid stopped suddenly on her way downstairs, shocked to see him standing there.

He turned, feeling like a fool, but he had to ask. "Have you seen a young lady come this way? Miss Elizabeth Bennet?"

To his surprise, the girl immediately nodded. "Yes, Sir. I do believe it was Miss Elizabeth—Miss Jane's pretty sister, yes?"

"Yes." Darcy's voice sounded strangled when he spoke. "Yes, is she in the kitchens?"

"No, Sir." The maid glanced toward a set of hooks on the wall. "Why, that's odd. She borrowed a cloak and boots, but that was at least half an hour ago. I thought she would have been back by now."

"Where did she go?" Darcy could hear a thundering in his ears, like his heartbeat had gone out of control. Like warning drums, in the distance.

The maid shrugged. "I've no idea, Sir. Just…outside."

Darcy put his hand on the door, ready to race out into the frozen world. But no, he had to think. He needed clothing, and he'd have a few other men come out with him to search for her. He hoped he was wrong; he hoped this dire, gnawing feeling in his gut was nothing more than his imagination. As he thanked the maid and turned, running back down the hall and up to his room, as he called for his valet, he hoped that he would find a flushed but hale and happy Elizabeth, walking a trail nearby.

He could imagine her gentle ire and laughter, as he and four or five poor footmen discovered her. He could imagine her witty remarks. He could see her staring at him, searching his eyes, wondering why he had come to find her.

She would know soon enough, he thought, as his valet found his thickest greatcoat and sent word for help. She would see it in his eyes, when he found her—that he was as wild for her as Bingley was for Jane.

More so.

That he would make her an offer.

That he would do anything for her, including gathering an army and heading out into the storm. He pulled his boots on and grabbed his sealskin hat, running downstairs and once again staring out that small, cold window near the kitchen door. The day was darker, and fresh snow was beginning to fall now. His valet told him that four footmen would be here presently; they were getting their coats and boots. Bingley was on his way, as well.

"Have them follow my footsteps," Darcy said, pushing the door open. A blast of freezing air greeted them.

"Mr. Darcy, please—just wait five minutes!" his valet urged.

"I can't," Darcy said. "Have them find me. I've got to find her. Now."

And then he was outside, the white world turning grey and dark. The snow that fell now was cold and small and hard, on the verge of hail. It stung his eyes and face, but he moved forward. There! There, he could just see footprints. They'd be covered with fresh snow soon enough, but for now, he could track her.

He just prayed—he just prayed he could find her. For he had the most terrifying feeling that she was already lost…to him, and to the world.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Elizabeth

* * *

She could no longer feel her legs.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, her nails digging into the ice. What a fool I've been, she thought for the thousandth time. She could not feel her toes, or her feet. She could not tell if she still wore the boots she had borrowed, or if she had somehow kicked them off her feet, once she had fallen through the ice.

 _God help me_ , she prayed. _I will never be so headstrong again._

She tried to shout for help, but she was so very tired.

She had felt so wonderful when she first began walking. Despite the cold, the world was quiet and white and magical. She felt like she was the last person on Earth, or like she was entering a fairy realm.

And it had been bliss.

She had always thought best on her feet. She was accustomed to rising before all her sisters and walking a few miles, almost every morning. But she was not accustomed to Netherfield's grounds.

Or to knee-high snow. Waist-high, in some areas. Elizabeth thought she had been following a path from the great house, northwest to a folly. She hadn't actually cared _where_ she was going, she just wanted to move.

To be free—from her mother's demands, Mr. Collins' expectations—

And Mr. Darcy.

It had worked, almost. The further she had walked, the less she heard her mother and Mr. Collins' voices in her head. They receded, along with Netherfield behind her. She could almost— _almost_ —forget the horrible proposal had happened at all.

But.

She could not forget Mr. Darcy. The further she walked, the more his visage came to mind. Underneath silent, ice-bound tree boughs, she could not help but think of his stiff and frozen exterior. But as she turned and followed a copse of trees, his proud behavior and early, dismissive remarks to her person fell from the wayside, just as snow began to fall from the darkening sky above.

He was not proud—well, he was a proud man. But in a different sort of way than she had first thought. She had thought him to be conscious of his wealth and social standing, a snob who looked down on the mere mortals like herself and all her neighbors.

And she thought he had been cruel to Wickham.

But now she knew the truth. He was kind. He was caring. He was, if anything, a bit guarded and shy—but not with her. As she had struggled to cross a small clearing, the snow thick and clinging to her cloak, she had felt a sudden warmth bloom in her heart. Mr. Darcy had spoken honestly and freely with her. He had bared his heart to her…

Only to her.

He had held her hand.

Elizabeth had closed her eyes, overcome with a strange, clutching feeling in her chest. It was almost painful. It was—

It could not be, but it was almost as if she was…falling in love with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

And then the ground gave a great creak, and a sudden cracking noise filled the clearing's cold, still air, and then the bottom fell out of the world—

And Elizabeth plunged straight down into the wet, icy depths of a river.

She had screamed. She was sure she had screamed at first. Thank God—miracle of miracles—there was somehow another ledge of ice below. She had landed on it, her boots scrabbling against it, and the freezing-cold current. At first, she had thought it was a submerged rock, but when she finally had the presence of mind to look down, she could see it was another sheet of ice…

And if she moved or pushed on it too fiercely, it began to crack and crumble.

She had first tried to climb up, out of water. But the ice near her shoulders crunched and broke as she tried to pull herself up. Then she tried to jump, and lost half the submerged ledge she stood on.

Now she was barely balanced, her skirts heavy and sodden. She felt like they were dragging her under, though it might just be the cold. Though, as she glanced around the quiet world—so beautiful, so still, so silent—she realized she was not so very cold. Not anymore.

The snow fell harder now, and Elizabeth had to laugh. No, wait, she was crying.

She was doing both.

Because it was such a beautiful winter day. And because she had finally realized what had been pulling at her heart and playing at the edges of her mind for weeks:

She loved Mr. Darcy.

She loved him.

 _How perfect. What a perfect comedy—or tragedy. Or both! To realize that I have fallen in love…right before I fall to my…_

 _Death?_

Now she _was_ crying.

Because no one would find her. Only her shoulders and head were above the water. She glanced around what was quickly becoming her entire world: she was alone in a clearing, of sorts. Behind her, there was the copse of snow-covered trees. She thought she had been following a path, but now she realized this was a swift-moving tributary of the deep river that flowed all the way to Meryton. It had been completely covered in snow, and she'd had no idea she was crossing ice.

 _I will not die here_ , she vowed. _It's too ridiculous_.

But when Elizabeth opened her mouth to try and scream for help, she could not take I enough breath to make any noise. She curled her fingers over the ice in front of her—her fingernails were bleeding. When had that happened? She tried again to pull herself up, but the ice she could reach began to make an awful, ominous creaking sound.

The hole around her was getting bigger. What would happen when she could no longer reach any of the ice with her hands? What would happen when the ice beneath her feet gave way?

Elizabeth looked down into the water. It looked dark brown and felt…

It felt like nothing. She could not feel her legs. She wiggled her toes, but they were numb and she honestly could not tell if they moved at her command, or not.

She glanced again, up at the dark gray sky. She tried to shout again, and maybe she did, but it also felt so good to close her eyes. So warm, and soothing, and now the current of the river felt like a gentle rocking. Like a mother who loved her child, rocking a babe in a crib.

 _Did my mother ever love me, like that?_ she wondered.

No, don't think of it. Don't think of her.

Think of happy things. Jane and Bingley, smiling at one another.

Papa, looking up as I come into his study, his dark eyes so lively and loving.

…Mr. Darcy, in the moonlight. Mr. Darcy, touching my hand.

What would it be like to have kissed him?

"Help," she said again, but it sounded like a whisper in her ears. But _no_. She would not fade away. She would not drown so easily, like Ophelia falling from a willow tree and not realizing her distress. She would fight.

 _She would fight._

Elizabeth spread her arms wide, trying to gain traction on as much of the river's frozen surface as she could. Her bleeding nails left smears of watercolor-red on the ice. _If I don't try something—anything—now, I will succumb_ , she thought.

She would attempt to roll up and onto the river's surface. If she could just push off from the submerged ledge of ice, perhaps she could raise herself up high enough to…

Save herself.

She tested it, but it was hard to even move her legs. She knew that rationally she must be freezing, but she no longer felt so cold. She felt quite numb, in fact. It would be easier to just stay here and wait, and hope that the maid she'd spoken to at Netherfield had noticed she'd been missing.

But for how long had she been gone? Perhaps not long enough to cause concern.

 _Move_ , she told herself. Was she shaking? Was her entire body shaking? And how had her hair gotten wet? _Move, now. Or else you'll never move again._

And so she bent her knees and tried—tried her very hardest—to kick up from the remnants of ice she stood on. She spread her arms and fingers and heart and soul and tried to roll up and over, onto the ice.

But it didn't work.

Her skirts and cloak were too heavy, and stayed stubbornly in the water. She could barely get her chest out of the current, and when she tried to roll the only thing she succeeded in doing was breaking more ice off from the surface, and widening the hole around her.

"No," she cried, for a moment waking from her stupor and realizing her danger. Her utter and complete danger. She was going to die, alone, all because she hadn't—what? Stood up to her mother? Because she'd run off rather than face her father? Because admitting her feelings about Mr. Darcy was too much to bear?

How stupid and silly and childish. She knew people died for all sorts of horrible reasons. Standing too close to a fire in winter. A child's blanket touches the edge of the embers, and disaster results. A cough that turns fatal, and no amount spent at the apothecary can help. A bad fall from the same horse you'd ridden a hundred days in a row.

So many ways to lose your one, precious life.

But how horrible—that she had caused this. All because of hurt feelings and pride and her own stupidity.

She couldn't feel her hands anymore. She could barely keep her chin above the water. But suddenly the image of Mr. Darcy, and his sky-blue eyes, filled her mind. His hands had been warm, so warm, when he'd pressed his palm against hers.

What would it have felt like, to kiss his full, perfect lips?

She always thought she was so brave. But to truly open your heart to someone, to not hide behind your own clever defenses—she had not been brave. Not in that way. She wished she had learned that lesson earlier.

Perhaps she would have run to speak with him, instead of running out into the cold world, alone.

Elizabeth fluttered her eyelids, trying to focus on the white, shifting horizon. She must be in real danger now, because she thought she saw the man she'd been dreaming of. But it could not be Mr. Darcy, appearing on the hill, running towards her.

Was he shouting her name?

She opened her mouth but could not make a sound. If she were a bit less exhausted, she would be furious at herself…for drifting off into the afterlife so easily. But when she tried to bend her fingers and reach for the ice shelf again, her hands did not obey.

She watched the Mr. Darcy apparition get closer. He was speaking, but she could not hear his words. The only sound in her ears was that of rushing water, getting closer and closer.

And then she slipped beneath the surface and heard nothing at all.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Thank you all for your very kind words! I honestly did not mean to leave everyone on such a dire cliffhanger! Life intervened but I am posting the rest of the chapters tonight. And now, let us dive in...

* * *

Chapter 15: Darcy

* * *

She disappeared, right before his eyes.

"No!" Darcy shouted, the word echoing that tiny, frozen pocket of the earth. "No, Elizabeth! No!"

He'd followed his instincts—and her footprints—from the back gardens of Netherfield, out into the wilderness. She'd veered to the right, trying to avoid a particularly deep area of snow. And then her tracks had led around a wooded area, up a small hill…

And directly onto a tributary of the river. Darcy recognized the area from when he and Bingley had first scouted the estate. He could see that, with the world covered in white, Elizabeth must not have known that she was venturing out onto a wide expanse of water.

When he crested the top of the hill and saw her, in the very middle of the water—his heart had dropped. He'd begun shouting at her to hold on, to wait. And then she had dropped from view.

He'd shouted. No, it was more than that. It was some animal sound jerked from his very soul. He'd flown down the hill, hoping to god the footmen and help were just behind him. He reached the river just as she disappeared into the dark water below the ice.

"Elizabeth, God, no—hold on!" he shouted, racing out onto the frozen surface and hearing it crack.

Immediately.

He froze. If he went down here, he'd be no good to her. But she was at least fifty paces in front of him. He could not see her face but one arm, her hand pale, still stretched across the top of the water.

Was her face _in_ the water?

"Holy God, save her," he whispered. He could not remember the last time he had prayed—truly given his soul to God—but ever since he'd met Elizabeth, he'd felt himself opened up in new ways. And he had no time to think beyond _God help her, God save her, God I would do anything to pull her alive from this water_ , and then he took another step onto the ice and felt the surface give beneath his weight.

He knew if the river were not covered in snow, he would be able to see the spiderweb cracks as his weight cracked the ice. In his mind the shards spread like lightning, and at any moment he felt he could plunge into the icy, black water.

And then he'd be no use to Elizabeth at all.

"Elizabeth!" he shouted. "I'm here! I'm coming. Hold on!"

If she heard or moved, he could not see—but her pale hand on the ice's surface gave him hope.

An image flashed in his mind's eye—something from long ago. From childhood. Winters when snow covered all of Pemberley, when he and Wickham were the only two children nearby. Memories he had pushed away, tried to forget. Erase.

But it came back to him then. Two little boys, wearing matching hats his mother had knitted for them, kneeling on the lake's bank.

Snow had been everywhere, snow for days, and finally—finally—they'd been allowed outside to play. Darcy remembered being entranced by the trees covered in ice, and the lake covered in ice as well. He and Wickham had taken their mitten-covered hands and brushed off the thick layer of snow.

Beneath that was the ice, grey and white and hard and magical.

They'd ventured out onto it, almost old enough to know better, but not quite. Who knows how far from shore they were when they were discovered—by Wickham's father, no less. He'd yelled at them something terrible, his hoarse voice made even more bear-like from cold.

And, Darcy now realized, from fear.

Darcy and Wickham had turned back, running toward the older man. It was only then, when they were still thirty paces from safety, that the ice began to crack. What a grand, loud sound it had been—until they'd realized what it meant.

"Down!"

Darcy could suddenly hear old Wickham's shout, as if the man still stood behind him, on this Earthen shore.

"Down, boys!" he'd shouted, instructing them to lay flat and roll all the way back to the bank.

And it had worked. By dispersing their weight, they'd kept the ice from cracking and lived—

The memory faded as Darcy lowered himself. Quickly, as gently as his shaking limbs allowed. He found himself on his knees, and then on his stomach. And then he began to crawl, slowly, spreading this long legs and arms as wide as he could.

"Elizabeth," he shouted. He called her name over and over again. As he made his way closer to her, the ice began to move under him. He could feel it swaying underneath his widespread fingers, his entire world unsteady. Cracking open.

If he looked down, he imagined he could see the dark waters rising. But God help him, he would not look down. He would not stop. What would his life be worth, if he let something as petty as fear stop him from—from rescuing the woman he loved?

The woman he loved.

"Elizabeth!" he cried. It had only taken him a minute, maybe two, to get this far, but it had taken an age too long. From behind him, he thought he heard Old Wickham shouting again. But then he realized, no, his prayers had been answered—it was the footmen. Perhaps there was Bingley's voice, as well, but he could not turn to look for them.

"Here!" he shouted, never stopping his forward momentum. "On the ice!"

He heard men yelling for ropes, and to form a chain, but he did not stop. And then he was there, where the ice crumbled into a black hole of water.

"Lizzy, Lizzy," he said. And then he touched her, grabbed her hand, cursing at how cold—how frozen—her flesh was.

How had she stayed afloat? And then as he wrapped one hand around her arm, she looked up, her face almost blue and her eyes fluttering weakly.

"I'm here," she said.

She was shaking so badly she could barely speak, and though she did not smile, he felt her eyes recognize him. He saw some small spark shine through.

And then she whispered, "W-w-what took you so long, then?"

If he felt tears on his cheeks, then, he would never admit it.

"Grab onto me," he ordered.

But he soon realized that she could not. Her limbs were frozen, and her hands—bloodied, bruised—could not even close.

"I've got you," he said again. He stretched both arms forward, plunging them into the water. It was freezing. It was colder than he could have imagined, and how long had she been out here?

"Elizabeth, I've got you," he said again. He had her arms now, but he couldn't reach her waist. He tried to move forward, but the ice gave a terrible, warning groan. Darcy cursed her thick skirts. He knew she must weigh next to nothing dry, but with a cloak and water-logged skirts, trying to pull her felt like trying to pull an oak tree from the ground with his bare hands.

And then the ice beneath him began to shake, and he felt his entire body fall—just enough to scare him. Just enough to lower him into the water, the sudden shock of the cold making him shout.

"S-s-stop," she said. "Don't come any closer. Y-you'll fall through."

"I won't," he said. "And they're coming—help is coming. They're right behind me."

He could hear them shouting his name. It was Bingley's voice, shouting hoarsely that they'd get him, they were almost there. They were almost there.

"Hold on," he said. "Hold on to me."

She smiled then, so beautiful, so cold. "I'm trying. Don't come c-c-closer without rope."

They stared at each other, and even now he could not stand the beauty before him. Snowflakes clung to her dark, wet hair. Water lapped around her neck, like the most awful, living jewelry. Her deep brown eyes matched the woods behind her. She was like a fairy-tale creature come to life, a siren he'd gladly give his soul to. His chest hurt so much he thought it might break and shatter before the ice did.

"Elizabeth," he said. "Hold on. Hold on. I love—"

And then her tired eyes widened and she gave a slight gasp, her hands reaching up and for him. And then her weighted body fell straight down into the icy deep.

Darcy scrabbled forward, heard himself shout no, over and over and over again, until he took a great, deep breath and dove in after her.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Darcy

* * *

He had never known cold like this before.

Shock. Utter shock, stilling him into ice.

Cold, dark. The world was black-green, and his eyes burned in the freezing river and he floated, stunned, hands outstretched, eyes now closed and unseeing.

 _Move_.

He jerked, shaking his head and opening his mouth. Too many bubbles escaped from his held breath. He couldn't even call her name. Where was she?

 _Elizabeth, Elizabeth_! He shouted in his mind but knew it was for naught. He struck out wildly, fingers opened and trying to feel something, anything.

His body floated upwards, naturally, and that's when he hit his head on the sky—no, the ceiling. The ceiling of ice. Good God, the current had pulled him under the ice. He couldn't breathe, and he began to panic but then—

No.

He could not panic. He would either save her life or—or he would die trying.

He forced himself to open his eyes, but it wasn't sure the pain of the freezing water was worth the view. He could see nothing, or next to nothing. But there—there ahead of him—

A flash of white and then he was on her, and she was still alive, still fighting. Her face was pressed up against the ice, and her fists—though he could not see clearly, he imagined her fists were beating futilely against the ice. He imagined that, because as soon as he touched her, realized he'd found her, he'd got _her_ , she turned and began to beat him.

He must have scared her beyond measure, but then she realized what it was—who it was—and her hands fell. He wanted to pull her to him, kiss her, but no—air. They needed air. His lungs were burning, and his vision was going dark. He wrapped one arm around her waist and pounded on the ice above them.

And pounded. And pounded again. Please God, let Bingley see them.

But no one came. He turned to try and pull them back toward the hole they'd fallen through, but the current was so strong, and he was—he was losing energy and breath and the ability to think. And then her hands were on his face, her palms cradling his cheeks. And then her lips, so cold and still, touched his. A cold, close-mouthed, frozen kiss.

 _She was saying goodbye._

"No," he said, wasting precious oxygen. He pulled her closer and raised his fist and willed himself to break every bone in his hand, if only it would break through the ice.

And then it did! Wait, no—there were more hands—grabbing him. Pulling him up. And then Darcy was up and onto the ice, in Bingley's arms.

"Elizabeth. Get her, get her!" he managed to gasp.

Bingley wrapped a cord of rope around Darcy's arm, before releasing him and reaching behind him. Bingley's men were shouting, pulling, grabbing Darcy and pulling him to safety. He couldn't move to help them, he was so very cold. But he turned, lying on his back, the sound of his body being dragged backwards on the ice. All he wanted to see was her. Elizabeth.

And there she was, being pulled up and into Bingley's arms. Her face was pale and her mouth was open—

Bingley turned, holding her, his face stricken. He slowly shook his head at the men on the river bank.

"No!" Darcy roared, trying to crawl back to the very place that had almost killed him. "No, no!"

But the men on the riverbank had him, and they pulled him, screaming, up onto land.

"Get ahold of yourself!" an older man shouted, and then, remarkably, Darcy did.

He pulled himself upright, dripping and barely able to breathe. It was an easy habit—a lifetime's habit—to fall into. The cold, frozen face. The haughty glare. The silence. The far-off stare.

A frozen mien to match his frozen heart.

And then Elizabeth was on the riverbank, and the men were surrounding her, shouting that the carriage was coming. Someone put a blanket on his shoulders, but he barely felt it. He watched in horror as Bingley laid Elizabeth flat on her back. Her dress clung to her. Her skin was blue.

"She's not breathing." Darcy heard Bingley say those words, but it took another intake of breath before he really heard them. Before he understood.

 _No_.

He must have said it out loud. And then his body was moving. "No," he said again. He pushed through the crowd and fell to his knees next to her.

 _No_. This would not happen. He would not go back to what he had been, a man of ice. He wanted her fire. He wanted her love. Her needed her to _live_.

He didn't care that he was making a fool of himself. He didn't care what any of these men—what anyone else—thought. His knees dug into the snow and then mud beneath, and he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up.

"Elizabeth," he said fiercely. "You wake up now. I won't have this. I refuse."

He shifted her even higher, her head against his shoulder, her body in his arms. He touched her cheek, like she had done to him. Then he shook her, just a little. Then…harder.

"Wake up, Elizabeth Bennet. You're still in there. I know you are." He glanced up to see a ring of men, their faces full of pity, and the sky bone-white above them.

He ignored them. He ignored everything, except the woman in his arms.

"I know you are," he whispered. "I know you are." He put his face closer and kissed her cold, cold lips. He whispered fiercely against her cold skin, "You are too full of life and too full of fire, for even a frozen river to douse. Wake up, my love, wake up."

Then he pulled back and looked at her, but she did not move—she did not breathe.

"I cannot be," he said. He was so cold he was shaking, but he shrugged off a man who tried to pull him to his feet. "No! No, it cannot be."

And then the great Fitzwilliam Darcy wept.

He put his forehead against hers, and he tried to memorize the feeling of that. _Please wake up, please wake up, you have a fire inside you_ , he found himself saying. And, _I love you, I love you, I should have told you ages ago. Please God, wake her up and I will do anything. Anything in the world._

"Elizabeth, my love, my love."

But she did not stir.

Darcy grabbed her and pulled her to him, as if she were still alive, as if she could return his embrace. He pulled her to him, in a lifeless embrace, standing as her cold, wet skirts covered his legs. He held her tight, then tighter, her head leaning on his shoulder. He buried his face in her neck, the water from her wet hair mingling with his tears, and he squeezed her tightly, as if he could will her back to life. As if he could absorb her into himself.

His entire body was shaking with sobs. And that is why it took him a moment—and another great inhalation—before he realized she was shaking, too.

"Miss Elizabeth!" Bingley shouted, and suddenly she was convulsing in his arms.

Darcy shouted as well, turning her and laying her back on the ground. Water spewed from her mouth, and Darcy turned her onto her side. The vile water left her, in the midst of great, wracking coughs. Some of the men began to praise God and say it was a miracle.

"Miracle or not," Darcy barked, "get that carriage here _now_. And the physician—apothecary—whomever! Get anyone and everyone you can here now and _heal my future wife_."

Upon his orders, the men began to scatter. Some shouted in the distance, hailing the carriage. Some footmen ran back to the house, while others brought blankets to the small, slight, shivering woman in front of him.

Darcy ignored them all. They all faded away, and all he could see was her. _Her._

"You're all right," he found himself saying. He had never known how to comfort anyone—Georgiana, his friends, himself. But now his hand touched her back, and when she finally could breathe again, he gently turned her face to him and said, over and over, "All will be well."

And then the carriage was here, with two sturdy horses and the men shouting. Darcy would let no one else touch her—he couldn't. There was no part of him that could release her. He lifted Elizabeth up into his arms, and when they were settled on the small sled, he covered her in blankets. She was so cold. Too cold.

"Faster," he barked to the driver. They raced the wind to reach Netherfield, but he did not look up. He did not look away from her beautiful face.

And then Elizabeth Bennet opened her eyes, staring for one moment up at the snow-filled sky…and then she turned her gaze to him.

"Hello there," he whispered. He could not stop the wide smile from spreading across his face, or the tears from filling his eyes.

"Hello there," she whispered back.

"Are you well?" he gasped. "Can you—can you move your hands? We'll get you in dry clothes and in front of the fire. How could you leave without telling anyone? God, Elizabeth."

He lowered his head and could not stop the tears from falling. Then he felt her hand, still terribly cold, on his cheek. He looked up into those eyes that he so desperately adored.

"I'm fine," she whispered. "Rather, I'm a fool for having gone for a walk onto a river. But other than that, I will be fine. Soon."

He shook his head and then she smiled. "Your problem is, Mr. Darcy, that you are entirely too high and mighty for your own good. Your future wife, did I hear you say? We shall see about that."

Then she closed her eyes and pressed her face against his wildly beating heart, and he nodded and whispered, "You are correct, Miss Bennet. We shall see about that."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Elizabeth

* * *

Elizabeth opened her eyes and stared at an unusual ceiling. It took her a moment—the molding, the thick velvet drapes—and then she sat up with a gasp. She was at Netherfield.

She was alive!

At that very moment, Jane stepped into the bedroom and saw Elizabeth sitting up.

"Lizzy!" she shouted, picking up her skirts and running toward her.

"Jane—" Elizabeth just had time to say her sister's name before Jane threw herself onto the bed and onto Elizabeth. "Jane, I'm fine! Jane!"

Elizabeth burst into laughter as her sister hugged her tight, though that laughter turned into a deep cough and Jane immediately extricated her limbs from her sister's.

"Oh no, I've made you cough," she fretted, running back to the open door. "Mama! Papa! She's awake! Lizzy's awake, and we need tea!"

And then her entire family swarmed into the room. Her father came first, his smile beaming like the sun. He grasped her in a huge, warm embrace, overcome with emotion and unable to speak. Mary praised the Lord over and over, but her eyes shone with tears and when she held Elizabeth's hand she pressed it hard against her heart. Jane was crying and even Kitty and Lydia argued over who had been the most worried and who first had noticed that Lizzy had gone missing.

"Missing!" her mother finally said. She pushed through her gaggle of daughters to lean over the bed and pull Lizzy into a tight hug. Elizabeth closed her eyes, overcome with the fierceness of the embrace, and the sweet lemony scent of her mother. She remembered being a child and smelling that exact same smell, when hugging her mother goodnight.

"Missing!" Mrs. Bennet repeated again, pulling Lizzy even closer and then pushing her away. Her relief turned swiftly to anger. "How you worried us all! Walking on a summer's morn is one thing, Lizzy. But to run off, in the middle of a blizzard, for no reason at all. How you scared us! Do you have any idea what you've done to my nerves, you silly, foolish girl?"

Mrs. Bennet began to cry and then motioned wildly for a chair. Kitty pushed one from the corner of the room to the bedside, and Mrs. Bennet sat in it, wailing and demanding tea and a footrest.

"Are you all right, child?" Mr. Bennet said, ignoring his wife and sitting quietly on the side of the bed. "While you were sleeping, we had an apothecary _and_ a physician attend to you."

"Goodness," Elizabeth said, falling back on her pillows. "Was that necessary?"

"Mr. Darcy would have it no other way. I'm surprised he didn't send for a surgeon from London."

"Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth said. And then, like water cresting over her, it all came rushing back. Her falling through the ice, and he had been there, reaching for her, telling her to hold on.

"Oh my—Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy _saved_ me." She felt her eyes well with tears. "I _am_ foolish. I am so, so sorry! I cannot believe I was so insensible. I was upset but I should not have fled the house—and to have fallen through ice." She gasped and looked at her family's faces. "Was anyone else hurt? Oh, I couldn't bear it if my actions caused injury to anyone!"

"Hush. No, no." Mr. Bennet took her hand in his. "No one was hurt, and no one is angry at you."

"No one was hurt?" Mrs. Bennet cried from her chair. "Your _mother_ was hurt! Why, when Mr. Darcy carried you inside and I saw your face white as snow, I nearly fainted! And then you slept all night, and we did not know how or when you would wake! Why, I have suffered terribly. Terribly! To make no mention of Mr. Collins."

"Mother!" Jane said.

"Mr. Collins?" Elizabeth shifted to stare at her mother.

"You refused him most rudely. And what is he to think of you now, after you have run off like a child and very nearly killed yourself—and Mr. Darcy! Though really, it was his own fault, diving in after you."

Elizabeth gasped. " _He dove into the water?_ "

Jane nodded. "He did. You do not remember?"

"I—I remember falling through the ice. I did know that I had left land and walked onto the frozen river. And then suddenly I was up to my neck in freezing water. The only reason I survived was because of another shelf of ice, that must have formed well below the surface. I was able to stand on that underwater ledge for some time." She paused and stared out the window. It was still snowing. "And then I remember Mr. Darcy coming out onto the ice, but I told him to stay back until help arrived. And then the ice beneath my feet broke—apparently I owe my life to Mr. Darcy."

She paused, playing with the embroidered edge of the bed's coverlet. While her memory of what, exactly, had occurred eluded her—one thing had been stamped onto her brain, etched onto her heart.

 _He called me his future wife._

And he'd held her in his arms, cradling her as the horses pulled them back to Netherfield. She'd been shaking with cold, and he'd wrapped her in blankets, holding her tightly. She now realized—how had she managed to forget?—that he must have been freezing himself. That his valet and Bingley had attempted to care for him, but he'd pushed them off and focused only, solely on her.

Elizabeth put her hand against her chest, feeling an ache there that had nothing to do with her near-drowning.

"Lizzy? Are you hurting?" Her father moved closer, taking her hand. "What's wrong, child?"

She stared up into his kind eyes. "Oh Papa, I've been foolish—so very foolish."

"Of course you have!" her mother shouted from behind him.

"I mean," Elizabeth said, ignoring her mother's outburst. "I have been foolish and very wrong, as it concerns Mr. Darcy."

"That proud, conceited man?" Mrs. Bennet said. "Why, if he had not saved your life, I should not give him the time of day."

"Mama, don't say that." Elizabeth met her father's confused gaze. "He is not the pompous, hardened man I thought he was."

"We all thought that, Lizzy," her father said.

"Yes, but—that was perhaps my fault. If I had not made it such an amusing tale, how he had offended me at the Meryton ball—perhaps we would have felt differently about him. And now that I know—"

"I would feel no differently!" Mrs. Bennet said, pushing her way past her husband to stand at the side of the bed. "Any man who insults one of my daughters is a fool, whether he has ten-thousand a year or not!"

"Ten thousand?" whispered Lydia. "La, I'd forgot that! Why, that's more than Mr. Bingley."

Mrs. Bennet nodded at her youngest daughter. "Yes, well, ten thousand is nothing if he is rude and awful and—"

A man cleared his voice, and they all looked as one to the doorway, where Mr. Darcy stood, looking very proud and very haughty, indeed.

And then he looked at Elizabeth and a wide smile broke out across his face, transforming his features and lighting up the room.

"I—we—that is. Oh dear!" Mrs. Bennet stammered, covering her mouth with her palm. "Mr. Darcy is here, Lizzy!"

"I'm sorry to disturb you all, but I heard that Miss Elizabeth was awake and I—I wanted to see if she needed anything. I can send for the physician again."

"That won't be necessary." Mr. Bennet stood up, groaning slightly and rubbing his knees. "Lizzy is awake and alert."

"And feeling simply awful," Elizabeth said. "For what I put you through, Mr. Darcy. And what I put all of you through."

Mr. Darcy shook his head as if to deny her words, then glanced around the room. Six women and one man stared silently at him, and Elizabeth watched as he grew more still and cold. She knew what was happening. How well she was getting to know him.

He was nervous.

But, so was she.

"I was wondering, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, if I might have permission to speak privately with Miss Elizabeth, later in the day—"

"Later?" Mrs. Bennet shook her head. "Later is not necessary. Why, I was just saying we should all leave Lizzy to rest and go fetch her some tea." She grabbed her husband's arm and began to pull him toward the door.

"Mama," Elizabeth cried, blushing with the impropriety of it all.

Mrs. Bennet glared at her daughter, and then at the heavens. "Fine! She needs to build up her strength, doesn't she? Jane, stay here and help me get Lizzy ready. Elizabeth, you and Mr. Darcy may go for a short stroll together— _indoors_ this time."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Elizabeth

* * *

She had never dressed this quickly in her life.

Rather, she had never been _forced_ to dress this quickly.

"Mama, stop! The pins are digging directly into my skull!" Elizabeth cried, jerking her head away from her mother's hurried hands.

"Here, let me," Jane said, taking the brush from her mother and smoothing Elizabeth's hair.

"Quickly, quickly!" Mrs. Bennet said. "He is waiting in the hall!"

"Yes, but he isn't _going_ anywhere. We're all trapped here by the snow," Jane said reasonably.

"Your sister certainly wasn't! And look where it got her," Mrs. Bennet cried, shaking out a borrowed dress. It was a golden color and looked dreadfully expensive.

"Where did you get that?" Elizabeth asked.

"Caroline," Jane said. She leaned down and whispered into Elizabeth's ear. "I was there when she picked it out. And you were right, my dear: she was most reluctant to lend you anything, and she made quite sure to pick the color she thought would look the worst with your complexion."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and let her mother and sister help dress her. The gown was a bit loose, and three inches too long, but it would do.

"Well, Caroline was wrong," Jane said. "You look lovely in gold, Lizzy."

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. "No, Jane. She looks beautiful."

"Mama!" Elizabeth said, turning to face her. "That might be the first time I can remember you telling me I look nice."

Mrs. Bennet rubbed her temples and looked Heavenward for a moment. "Lord help me, with these daughters. Of course you're pretty, Lizzy! You take after me, after all. But I can only spare so much attention for each of you girls. I had to get Jane married off first, and now I can concentrate on you. Don't look at me like that—you'll get a line between your eyes if you scowl for too long."

"Wait, Jane—have you and Mr. Bingley reached an understanding?" Elizabeth turned and grabbed her sister's hands. "When? Tell me everything!"

Jane laughed, her blue eyes filling with tears. "I didn't want to bother you at present. But yes. Yes. I was so distraught when you were brought back, and Mr. Bingley—my Bingley—was so kind to me. He spoke with Papa, and then he asked me last night. Lizzy, I am the happiest of women!" She glanced toward the closed bedroom door. "The only thing that would make me even more joyful, is if you have also found a man whom you greatly admire."

"Pff, enough of this chatter!" Mrs. Bennet. "I'll tell you what there is to admire: ten thousand a year! Now pinch your cheeks and go for a walk. Jane, follow them—but at a distance!"

Elizabeth hugged Jane tightly and whispered, "Tell me everything tonight. Oh dearest Jane, I am so happy for you!"

And then her mother was pushing them toward the bedroom door, and then they were out in the hallway, and there was Mr. Darcy. He stood in front of a window, the bright winter sunlight hitting his eyes and turning them a jeweled blue so clear and brilliant that Lizzy had trouble breathing for a moment.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said softly, staring at her as if they were alone. Then he recollected himself and bowed to the women behind her. "Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but her mother rushed forward, taking Lizzy's hand and leading her up to Mr. Darcy.

"Mr. Darcy, you know how I dote on all my daughters! I am loathe to have Lizzy up and about after her outdoor _adventures_ , but the apothecary and her father insist she is well enough and that exercise will do her good. I am afraid she is still weak, however. Will you lend her your arm, so that she might not fall?"

"It would be my honor," Mr. Darcy said, only a trace of a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Elizabeth could feel herself flushing, but she put her hand on his arm and glanced back just once. Her mother was holding Jane's arm, and firmly instructing her—rather loudly—to trail behind the couple, and Jane suddenly felt cold and had to rush back to find a shawl, well, that was to be expected. It was winter, after all.

"Shall we walk?" Mr. Darcy said.

"Please," Elizabeth said.

They fell into step, moving down the hall toward the grand staircase that led to the lower level.

Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy from the corner of her eye. As always, he was impeccably dressed, though his clothes were not ostentatious. His face was calm, and he glanced down at her every few steps but said nothing.

It was only after they had gone down the grand staircase, into the East Wing, and were passing through a display of marble busts—all of which seemed almost more animated than her walking partner—that Elizabeth began to worry. Was something wrong? Why did he not speak?

They moved through the busts and into a bright room, with white columns and an ornate, painted ceiling. From the middle of the ceiling hung a large, glass chandelier that shimmered and caught the light, both from the windows and from the many mirrors hung on the walls.

"Oh my," Elizabeth said, turning to admire the intricate paintings—men and women held hands, danced, and frolicked in pastoral scenes above her head. "What work went into this room."

"Yes," Mr. Darcy said, curtly.

They both glanced back at Jane, who was studying a bust of an elderly man with more interest than she perhaps had shown in any one thing in her life.

Elizabeth had to laugh, and when she met Mr. Darcy's eyes again, she saw that they were shining with laughter, as well.

"I—I don't know how to thank you," she said in a rush. "You saved my life. I was a silly child, to run away and to endanger myself. Not to mention endangering all the men who helped me—and you." She paused and pressed her hands to her cheeks. "You are being quiet, but kind. I am sure I can never stop telling you how sorry I am, how I regret my actions with every part of my being. I am sure you are angry with me. But please believe me, you will never be as upset with me as I am, with myself. If anything had happened to anyone—"

She paused, staring out the window. She did not dare look at him, not yet. She could not stand to see the censure in his eyes. "I told you I valued honesty, and I am not being truthful. Of course, if anything had happened to Mr. Bingley or his men, I would be devastated." She forced herself to turn and stare into those blue, blue eyes. "But if anything had happened to you, I would not have been able to live with myself."

"Elizabeth," he said, stepping forward. And then, even closer, so that when he reached out gently, his palms cradled her face and he tilted her chin up, ever so slightly, so that she could look up at his beautiful, kind, smiling face. "Lizzy, my Lizzy—may I call you that? Because that is what you are."

Elizabeth blinked back tears. "You are not mad at me? You were so silent, as we walked. I thought perhaps…you did not wish to be friends me with, any longer."

He laughed quietly, a low, masculine sound. "I could never be mad at you. I was silent as we walked because—because that is a habit of mine. One you are helping rid me of. But because you value honesty, I must tell you, darling Elizabeth, that no, I do not wish to be friends with you."

She inhaled quickly and tried to step back, but he moved with her.

"I wish to be much more than that," he said.

"Oh," Elizabeth said. "Oh my."

"You are weak from your ordeal. There is a bench just there, behind you." He led her to a cushioned bench against the wall. He surprised her then, by sitting next to her and holding her hand. She let him, her heart beating in her ears and her dress suddenly too tight against her chest.

Mr. Darcy cradled her hand in his, studying her palm and slowing tracing a circle there, just as he had done before. Elizabeth closed her eyes, overcome by how just that slight pressure, that constant motion—how just his touch, so sure, so sweet—could make her entire body buzz with anticipation, and excitement.

And…love.

And then he looked up at her, his face so close she could almost reach out and touch him.

And so she did.

His face was smooth-shaven, warm, softer than she would have imagined. He closed his eyes at her touch, and let her fingers lightly trace his cheek, and then his chin.

"Lizzy," he whispered, and just as she was about to draw his hand back, he grabbed it and kissed her fingertips. Slowly. Gently.

She could not imagine what it would be like for him to actually kiss her, on her lips. Because just his soft, firm kiss on her hand made her go weak.

"I am weak, but not from my foolish ordeal," she whispered.

He looked up at her. "I used to think that to show emotion was to make myself vulnerable. And that to be vulnerable was to fail: fail my family, fail the expectations placed on me, and to fail as a man. But my Lizzy, you have taught me to feel again. I tried to deny you—God's truth, if we had not been snowbound together, I might have run to the ends of the Earth to escape you. You knocked me from my pedestal; you shook the very foundation of my world. I was frozen—as frozen as that river you tried to cross. And just like that river," he began to laugh, "You have broken my foolish shell apart. You have thawed my heart. I was frozen, in life, in love. And you—you saved me, Elizabeth Bennet. You saved me from a cold existence, and you lit my world on fire."

He stopped speaking, bowing his head and kissing the back of her hand. Slowly, intimately. Elizabeth realized that there were tears on her cheek, and she put her free hand to her heart, which beat and trembled and hurt in the most precious, wonderful way.

"Mr. Darcy—"

"Just Darcy, if you prefer. It's what my very close friends call me."

She laughed through her tears. "I thought you said we were not friends?"

"It is also what I hope my wife shall call me. If you will have me? I am not the most eloquent of men, but I—I love you. And I would cherish you, protect you, worship you, and—and keep you safe during all river crossings for the rest of your life, if you would consent to be my wife."

Elizabeth wanted to close her eyes and hide her tears, but then she would miss what she most wanted to see: the look on Mr. Darcy's face when she said "yes."

And so she said it, once, then twice. Then a third time as his eyes lit up, and that boyish smile spread across his face, and then she said it again right before he kissed her.

And then again, and again—and once more—before they both stopped speaking and communicated in other, more delicious ways.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Thank you all SO MUCH for reading my winter tale! I have loved reading your comments, and you've all made me so excited to write my next Darcy and Elizabeth adventure! Thank you again! xo Caitlin

* * *

Chapter 19: Elizabeth

* * *

 _Two Years Later_

"Can I see her? I must see her! I demand that I see my wife!"

Darcy burst into the bedroom, his hair wild and his eyes even more so. However, he skidded to a stop on the floor as soon as he saw her—and their newborn son.

"Lizzy," he gasped, coming to the side of the bed. "My darling, my love. How can you look so beautiful after all of this?"

"By 'all of this' I assume you mean providing you with an heir?" she said. "Darling, meet your firstborn son, little Fitzy."

"Good God, woman, we are _not_ naming him Fitzwilliam."

Elizabeth laughed. "Thank goodness. Though he will have your last name, and your good looks, and hopefully your wild hair."

He laughed and ignored the women in the room, laying down gently next to her. "My God, he's amazing. He's perfect. May I—can I?"

"You can touch him," Elizabeth whispered, glancing up to see her mother and Jane's amused expressions. "You can hold him."

Darcy sat up and slowly, gingerly, took the small, swaddled infant into his arms. Elizabeth leaned back on the pillows and smiled. She was exhausted after two days of labor, and longed to sleep and eat. But she could not stop watching the sight before her: her beloved husband, holding their firstborn child.

"Hello there," he whispered tenderly. "Welcome to the world, sweet boy."

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears, and she saw matching ones fall from her husband's eyes when he closed them, leaned forward, and gently kissed the baby's head, which was indeed covered with a thick thatch of dark curls.

"He's so tiny," Darcy said, gently rocking him. "And you—you are amazing. You are so strong, my sweet Elizabeth. I paced that hall for the past two days, but they wouldn't let me in." He grinned and arched a perfect eyebrow. "What took you so long, my sweet?"

She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth so as not to wake the baby. "You are lucky I am so tired, or I would throw a pillow at you. Throw anything nearby, really. 'What took me so long'—well, I'll tell you."

But she was stopped by the loud caterwauling of an infant in the room next door.

Darcy almost dropped their son. "What—who—is that a _baby_?" he gasped.

Lizzy grinned, and then Jane appeared, holding another infant in her arms.

" _That_ took me so long," Elizabeth said. "Darling, meet your daughter. She was quite stubborn, much like her mother, but she is here at long last."

Darcy's mouth hung open, and he looked wildly from the babe in his arms, to his wife, to the little girl crying in her Aunt Jane's embrace.

"Elizabeth," he said. " _Lizzy_."

Mrs. Bennet came to take the baby boy.

"We'll leave you two for a moment," Jane said. "You need to get some rest now."

Elizabeth nodded, kissing her mother and sister, and thanking all the women who had come to help her labor for so many long hours. When they had all left the room, Darcy turned to her and shook his head.

"Just when I think you can surprise me no more—you do. I am shocked. And humbled. And grateful. And—and I am just so happy you and the babies are well."

And then he climbed into bed and gathered her into his arms, and Elizabeth smiled and shifted slightly, finding a comfortable position.

"I just want to sleep for just a bit," she whispered, "You know, a fortnight or so."

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. "Sleep, eat, hold our amazing children. My love, my life, do whatever your heart desires."

She closed her eyes, curled into her husband's warmth. "I will sleep now, and then eat. And then we will stare in awe at those two small, beautiful creatures."

"Yes," he whispered. "As always, you have the most brilliant plans."

"Just hold me for now," Elizabeth said.

"Forever and always," Darcy replied.

And then they both slept in each other's arms. And Elizabeth dreamed of swimming in deep, warm water. And when she surfaced, her husband pulled her up from a river and onto firm ground. But this time it was summer, and she had been swimming in the clear, still lake behind Pemberley. Her dream-self dried her body under the hot August sun, and watched her husband teach their toddlers a version of nine pins in which the children almost always won.

And when she woke up, she told Darcy about her dream, and he promised that one day, that would indeed happen.

"I know," Elizabeth whispered happily, sitting up and looking through the window at the snow-covered grounds of Pemberley. Soon the winter snows would melt, and then world would turn warm and green and lovely again. "For you always make my dreams come true."

Darcy smiled and joined her at the window. "More snow," he sighed.

"I don't mind." She smiled cheekily. "It reminds me of when we met."

He laughed and pulled her against him, and then they heard the twins, crying in the hall.

"Well, here they come," Elizabeth said. "Are you ready to start this new adventure together?"

Darcy kissed her tenderly and smiled. "Always. Wherever you go, I follow…as long as it's not a frozen river. Once was more than enough."

Elizabeth laughed and kissed him. And then the doors opened and her mother and Jane brought the twins inside. And so began Elizabeth Darcy's next adventure. It was one of many, through warm days and wintry nights, through the long and wonderful years, and always with her husband by her side.


End file.
